Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Watching the girl being cut piece by piece and then put back together again, like someone had just rewound the film reel, had been funny the first few times — but after that, Jiro was sick of it. Sure, it was still kind of entertaining, because the world was full of all sorts of weird shit, but he couldn’t sit still knowing that somewhere out there something interesting was definitely happening. Plus, he wasn’t really into snuff stuff, even if he knew the culture. But this… whatever this was — where was the thrill, the bloodbath, the chaos? He could feel it; Ichiro could too — because the boss hadn’t contacted them for almost a whole day now, and that could only mean a few things: either he got completely wasted and lost his phone (dumb, but still possible), or he was out there fighting like a lion.

With who? Good question, but Jiro didn’t care much. Sojo was out there somewhere, while he and his brother were stuck here guarding the lab — for no damn reason, since there was no point in it.

When he yawned, Ichiro shot him a quick glance, and then they looked at each other. People said twins had some kind of mystical bond, and Jiro could confirm — pure truth! They always knew when both wanted a drink. And right now was exactly one of those moments. Wandering around aimlessly wasn’t their thing, so they dumped their guard duty on one of the mercs who was just as bored by the gate, and strolled off — there was a small shop a couple of kilometers away where they could stock up on some supplies. That’s where they were headed.

The evening was warm and pleasant, so they took their time; no need to rush. The girl was safe with them, and the kid with the enchanted sword, the one Sojo was so interested in, was probably hiding somewhere, licking his wounds after that lightning strike. The thought alone made Jiro snort with laughter, and his brother looked at him like he’d lost it.

"What’s so funny?"

"Just remembered," Jiro waved it off. "That lightning strike. Still can’t believe some punk thought it’d be smart to take a hit from the enchanted sword just to protect others. Show-off! Like, dude, you could die from that. And if you don’t, you’ll have complications for life. Have you ever heard of people struck by lightning?"

"I heard of a guy who got struck seven times and didn’t give a damn about complications."

Seven times — that did sound impressive.

"Yeah, but that’s a normal lightning bolt!" Jiro spread his arms like he actually knew what he was talking about. "This one’s from the enchanted sword! I doubt you just walk that off."

"You’re an idiot," Ichiro burst out laughing. "You think about the dumbest crap."

"You’re the crap."

"No, you are!"

And that’s how, bickering all the way, they reached the little shop. Behind the counter stood a sweet old lady who, of course, knew them — to her, they were just the lab guards, the ones from that place that burned down half a month ago. Nothing special. After a few friendly words, they bought booze for themselves and the rest of the guys stuck at base, then headed back. The sky was darkening fast. Night was closing in, and stars began to bloom above — clearly visible here, unlike in the city.

When they were kids, they used to watch the night sky, hoping to spot a shooting star and make a wish. But then the cities rose from the ashes, and there wasn’t much point in stargazing anymore. They’d grown up, too. Watching stars was for kids; at night, you were supposed to be looking at escort girls’ tits, not some falling stars.

But when Jiro looked up, he saw something flash between the dark clouds where the sky had briefly cleared. His mouth fell open, and he elbowed his brother.

"Dude! Look, look!"

"Look at what?"

"A star fell!"

"Where?" both of them started craning their necks like two idiots, scanning the sky for the fallen star. Just when Ichiro was about to give up, and Jiro’s disappointment was about to peak, another one fell. They both started yelling like a pair of seagulls fighting over a crust of bread. "Holy crap, look, another one! What is it, a meteor shower tonight?!"

They didn’t know jack about astronomy, so they just wished for things to go awesome in the near future and kept walking toward the base, chatting idly about what the others might be up to. Nobody cared much about the lab experiments anymore; some even got moral about it — how can you torture a girl like that? — but the moment they weren’t looking, everything was suddenly totally fine. Jiro figured those idiots had probably drifted together somewhere and were playing mahjong or cards. And now he and his brother were bringing booze! It was going to be a great night.

That’s what they thought, smiling at each other as they stepped out of the woods toward the ruined castle, already picturing the first drink. And then—

An explosion ripped through the night.

A blinding flash split the darkness.

The blast was so loud that Jiro’s ears popped instantly. He landed on his ass, not just from surprise but from the shockwave itself, staring dumbly at his brother, while Ichiro stared back, just as lost. When they both slowly turned their heads toward the castle, they saw it swallowed by a bloom of fire. A massive cloud of flame — so huge it looked like the sky itself was burning. Their guts dropped straight to their heels, and they forgot all about the beer, sprinting toward the inferno even though both knew damn well there was probably nothing left alive in there. Maybe it was a shock. Maybe something else. Jiro had no idea. But he had to do something. He just ran forward, ignoring the chunks of debris crashing around his feet, the bodies of their former comrades scattered here and there… Someone had done a hell of a job here. And that’s putting it lightly.

A terrible thought crept into his mind.

Shit! Could it be that little bastard had made it here — and did all this, avenging the girl?! Who else could’ve pulled this off?!

"Fuck!" Jiro spun around near the stone staircase, or what was left of it — just a couple of steps. The fire roared, the heat unbearable even though it was mid-October. He wanted to rip off his bomber jacket and go shirtless. "If Sojo comes back, he’s gonna kill us! We barely rebuilt this damn lab! Where the hell is he, anyway?! Hey, Ichiro…"

But his brother wasn’t listening. He was standing there with a blank look on his face, staring at the ground. When Jiro came closer and looked too, his stomach dropped.

He was looking at an arm.

Now, seeing a severed hand wasn’t exactly new to them, they’d seen worse, but whose hand it was made Jiro’s heart seize up. Those stupid straps around the wrist — oh, he knew them well. He’d always told Sojo they looked dumb, and Sojo always snarled back, like, you, dumbass with two spikes on your head, can shove your ‘important opinion’ right up your ass where it belongs. And now that very arm was lying right there on the ground.

He and Ichiro locked eyes again; twin intuition kicking in, no words needed. In perfect sync, they tore off their outer clothes, left only in their pants, let their facial masks manifest — and dove straight into the fire.

If Sojo’s arm was here, if he wasn’t answering his phone, then it probably meant one thing: he and Rokuhira had fought. Maybe the damn government dogs had ambushed him. Whatever happened, it all went down in the thirty minutes they’d been gone. Jiro wasn’t stupid — if the guys had still been around when Sojo arrived, they’d have joined the hunt for the brat. Which meant the little shit had slaughtered everyone before the boss showed up, and then the two of them fought… and if the base exploded, then Sojo had lost, because otherwise he’d never have let this happen. Fuck.

He was somewhere in there. Inside.

Logically, Jiro knew the boss was probably dead. Rokuhira wasn’t the type to let anyone walk away. He was a dangerous little bastard who killed everything in his path. But Jiro wasn’t a complete idiot — he’d caught sight of a bloody trail on the stairs, like someone had tried to crawl. The boss was one stubborn son of a bitch, so maybe… maybe he’d tried to get somewhere. That was enough.

He and Ichiro plunged into the flames. The masks made them stronger, dulled the pain — the fire licked at their skin, but not as harshly. Still, the air was suffocating, hot, no oxygen. They kicked aside debris, clawed through rubble, searching for anything. They found bodies, of course — lots of them. The guards, their old buddies, the same ones they’d just bought beer for. Some corpses were barely recognizable, but from scraps and details, they could tell who was who. They dug for about five minutes, though it felt like the longest stretch of Jiro’s life. He was just about to give up — maybe the boss had been blown to atoms — when Ichiro suddenly shouted, barely audible over the roar of the flames:

"Found! Found him!"

When Jiro ran over, he couldn’t understand at first how his brother had identified That — that thing — as the boss. The charred body looked more like overcooked meat on the right side, where skin, flesh, and clothing had fused into one blackened mass. But the left side… it was less damaged, still human enough to recognize. Though not by much. It looked like pure, unfiltered hell.

At first, Jiro was sure the boss was dead meat, but Ichiro hoisted him up like a sack of potatoes and yelled:

"Call Noriko-san! Don’t just stand there — I’ll try to reanimate him!"

Noriko-san was the underground doctor. A charming lady with prices high enough to make grown men cry, but her work? Flawless. No scars left, ever. Sojo rarely went to her; he preferred to heal on his own. He didn’t usually get hit this badly. The old woman — well, no one really knew how old she was, stuck somewhere between forty and seventy — was a greedy, hard-nosed bitch, but Jiro didn’t care right now. He fished his phone out of his jacket pocket, glancing over as his brother tried desperately to do something with the boss. It didn’t look promising. But they had no choice. Time to try their luck. They even saw two shooting stars!

On the other end, the call was picked up almost immediately, and a familiar rasping voice came through:

!Yes?!

“Noriko-san!.. We really need your help.”

There was a long exhale on the other end, and Jiro guessed the old lady was probably smoking right now.

“Explain.”

He briefly described what had happened; Noriko asked for half a minute to teleport to them. As he moved closer to his brother, Ichiro was still trying to do something with the boss, but Jiro thought — it was pointless. Sojo wasn’t gonna make it. His left arm was gone, his right shredded into pulp. The only reason he wasn’t bleeding out was because the fire had cauterized the wounds — but that huge slash across his chest, where his guts were practically spilling out… yeah, that was game over. That’s it, Jiro thought grimly. Song’s over. All that bragging about his blade… and he still got his ass kicked by some punk kid. He was so bummed he almost forgot — if Noriko-san was coming, they’d better bring the severed hand too. Maybe she could stitch it back on. Assuming Sojo survived, which Jiro seriously doubted.

He went to grab the severed limb, and just then, with a soft pop, Noriko-san appeared behind them — holding a thick, permanent marker in her hand. A tall, elegant woman of indeterminate age. She wore a lab coat, like she hadn’t even gone to bed, or maybe her intuition had told her she was about to make some good money. Who knew? She was a mystery — her chemical curls and dyed hair made her look like she’d stepped out of some old movie. She glanced briefly at the twins, then at the body on the ground. Her eyes darkened, and she stepped forward when Jiro suddenly croaked out:

"Need a hand?"

Her gaze dropped to the limb he was holding. And he realized — oh, crap. That came out so wrong.

Standing in the corridor of her own clinic, Noriko-san smoked.

Under the pale light of the old fluorescent lamps, her real age showed — she was probably around sixty, just well-preserved. But in that cold white glow, the fine lines at the corners of her mouth became visible. Jiro and Ichiro sat across from her on a waiting bench, both still shirtless — a few minutes earlier, Noriko-san’s assistant had treated their burns. They’d thrown themselves into the fire believing it wouldn’t harm them much, but nature’s power was still stronger than any human, even a sorcerer. She was clearly lost in thought… Jiro, meanwhile, just wanted to get the hell out of there, take a shower, and wash off the stench of burnt flesh — not his own, thankfully, but the boss’s.

Finally, Noriko seemed to snap out of it. She tapped the ash from her cigarette into the nearest ashtray and looked at the twins. Jiro suddenly noticed — there were hardly any wrinkles around her mouth. That’s because she rarely smiled. And she rarely brought good news.

"I managed to resuscitate him," she said. The twins both exhaled in relief. Well, at least he wasn’t dead-dead. Technically, he had died, but came back. "And without cutting his guts too short," she added. "But I can’t promise he’ll wake up. It’s easier to list what isn’t broken in his body than what is. For now, he’s in a coma. The arm, "she glanced at Jiro, the one who had dragged that damn arm back, "I managed to reattach it. Luckily, that side of the body suffered less from the flames. Looks like he was facing the blast with his right side. But the right arm was a total mess. Not even worth trying to piece together — it would’ve never healed well. Hm…"

Ichiro reached into the beer bag they’d brought earlier and offered her a bottle. She didn’t refuse. It had been hours — almost four straight — of nonstop work. Another doctor was finishing up with the boss now, but the main part was done. She was clearly exhausted. Still, she only took a small sip before continuing in that same dry, strict tone:

"I managed to speed up the skin regeneration on that side, but a scar will remain. He won’t be as handsome as he used to be."

"What a loss," Ichiro snorted, and Jiro chuckled weakly along with him.

"Unfortunately, he’ll never get back to his previous level. If he wakes up," she added quickly, then paused to take another sip straight from the bottle. "Though he’s a sorcerer, his chances of waking are higher than for a normal person. His body heals faster. Still, if I were you, I wouldn’t get my hopes up. Anyway, on to the important part…"

"We’ll get you the money, don’t worry," Jiro leaned back against the wall and yawned, utterly drained. His legs barely held him after all that stress. "We don’t have access to his funds, and there’s a shit ton in there. Full rate, yeah… Just let us sit for a sec, I’m so fucking tired."

Noriko blinked.

"No, actually, I meant… Does he have family? Friends? Someone who can look after him? He’s unlikely to be able to care for himself at first."

Jiro and Ichiro’s faces darkened instantly. They knew Sojo didn’t have a family — when they’d first met years ago, he’d been one of the countless orphans born from the war, one of thousands of kids left without a home. Whether he had any relatives left — besides that family you only mentioned with respect, like all the dead — they didn’t know, but they doubted it. Sojo never kept in touch with anyone. If nobody had taken him in after the war, when he was just a kid, then there was probably no one to take him in now.

But if Noriko-san was asking that question…

It meant he needed help.

And that could only mean one thing — revenge, rebuilding the business, all that was over. The boss was a cripple now, right? His heart had stopped for several minutes. He’d lost so much blood they’d even had to donate some of theirs — thankfully, they were a match. His dominant arm was gone, and the reattached one would never be as strong. And who even knew if he’d wake up at all?

That was it. The end.

No one would take him seriously again. The Kamunabi would come to feast on the ruins of their organization — Sojo had been a massive thorn in their side for years. And if he ever tried to raise his head again, they’d crush him instantly. The government didn’t forget. The government never forgave. It was that kind of a bitch. And Sojo wasn’t the kind of man who could dictate terms anymore. It stung, honestly.

And then Jiro realized — shit, what about them? They’d worked for him for years, and now the business was dead, their jobs gone. But Sojo wasn’t just their boss — he was their friend, the guy they’d been through hell with. It just didn’t feel right to dump him now, not when he couldn’t do a damn thing on his own.

Ichiro clearly came to the same conclusion, and after exchanging a reluctant look, they both muttered:

"We are those people."

Noriko didn’t seem particularly interested in whether they were friends, family, or just saying it for some other reason — clearly, she didn’t care, which was the right call. She just nodded, waved her hand dismissively, and said:

"Good. As long as you’re close by. For now, you can go — there’s nothing for you to do until he wakes up. Head to the counter; Akko-chan will write up your bill. Bring her the money later. If you try to cheat me, I’ll take your boss apart for spare organs."

The twins snickered, though it was obvious she wasn’t joking.

"Assuming there’s anything left to take," she added dryly. "I’ll contact you if he wakes up."

"When," Ichiro corrected automatically.

Noriko’s gaze darkened. She did not like that.

"Young man," she said sharply, in the tone of a teacher scolding a careless student, "I prefer to be a realist."

It just so happened that he and Ichiro first met Sojo — back then, they still called him by name, since they were only about a year apart — somewhere in the middle of the war.

Spring had already come, but it was still chilly. Jiro and Ichiro were the grandsons of a big-shot yakuza boss, so they lived better than most kids their age. Their father had gone to the front, and their mother had died when they were little, so the only family they had left was their grandfather. The old man, worried for their safety, had sent them to his summer house near Chiba, far from the capital, where things were dangerous — a small countryside village. He went with them, since he was too old for war and half-blind to boot, but still a sharp old bastard. People from other clans and families often came by to seek his advice. When Jiro grew up, he realized his grandfather hadn’t been that important, just another relic the other old-timers loved to visit when hope was gone. Still, he wasn’t a nobody.

The twins were eleven at the time, and they didn’t really understand what war was — mostly because their father had always been gone anyway, and nothing much had changed for them except fewer sweets and a new house. They spent their days goofing around, playing with little bits of sorcery, while their grandfather yelled at them, claiming the Inugami family should show more respect to the sacred beast Shisa and not behave like two little layabouts.

Life was good — simple, loud, full of warmth.

Of course, nothing stays smooth forever. They’d moved away early in the war, but eventually, it caught up to them. The front near their village was quiet, though — distant, almost sleepy. There was nowhere else to run, and the old man, seized by a fit of patriotism, declared that if they were to stay, they’d stay. And so they did: while soldiers fought to the death just a few dozen kilometers away, the twins played in the yard as if danger didn’t exist at all. Sometimes they’d watch the horizon when something rumbled in the distance. A perfect wartime childhood. Once in a while, they’d have to evacuate, but they always came back. They didn’t understand what was happening — only that sometimes, something terrifying exploded somewhere far away.

Ignorance, as they say, is bliss. But blind to violence, unlike their grandfather, they were not.

The war in their region wasn’t as fierce as elsewhere. The enemy had moved most of their forces to the areas where enchanted blades were in play, and the outskirts of the capital were either already razed or simply not worth anyone’s time. There were no factories around, and the only thing of value was the railroad that sometimes carried freight or troop trains. Ichiro and Jiro would run out to wave at the soldiers, and the soldiers waved back. Still, war was war. They saw plenty of cruelty — wounded soldiers, corpses. They’d long since gotten used to hunger, surviving on the old man’s dwindling supplies, so the sight of starved bodies didn’t even shock them anymore. Their half-blind grandfather never knew where they disappeared to all day, and sometimes, Ichiro and Jiro would sneak off to abandoned battlefields, wandering among the rusting weapons left behind. Others scavenged there too — and that was how they met Sojo.

It was a blindingly sunny day. The twins were darting around the field, looking for something interesting, when they heard movement. They froze and squinted into the distance — a group of kids. There were a lot of them — some teenagers, some much younger, younger even than the twins. Jiro instantly knew they were orphans. There were plenty of those around the country, as their grandfather had said, and they tended to roam in packs like stray dogs. This bunch had clearly found something worth digging for; they were crowded around one spot, busy for a long time. Naturally, the twins got curious. But Jiro remembered what the old man had said — kids like that didn’t trust anyone who still had anything left. They could be vicious, ruled by envy. Still, he and Ichiro were sorcerers and decent fighters. That pack didn’t look like much of a threat.

So they walked closer. The group stiffened.

"What’re you doing here?" Jiro asked, not even trying to hide his curiosity.

The oldest, probably their leader, looked about sixteen, growled:

"Get the hell out."

"Looking for weapons, huh?" the twins didn’t back off, grinning like predators. "Too late for that. Scavengers already took everything worth a damn."

"Piss off!"

"You’d have better luck closer to the front."

"Shut it!"

When the leader started toward them, hand on the knife at his belt, Ichiro and Jiro instantly pulled on their demon masks and roared, pretending to be monsters. People still weren’t used to sorcerers back then, and sure enough, the whole pack scattered like a flock of startled birds. The leader bolted first, glaring back at them — not exactly afraid, but clearly not eager to fight either. They’d probably already had a bad run-in with sorcery folk, Jiro thought with a smirk, picking up the knife the boy had dropped. What a piece of crap. Someone had just broken a butter knife in half. It wouldn’t last two swings. He tossed it aside and only then noticed that two kids hadn’t run.

At first, Jiro thought it was a boy and a girl — but then realized it was two boys.

The first one, the one he’d mistaken for a girl, was small and scrawny, shorter than them. Probably younger too. His hair looked like that of those fancy dolls in rich clothes that used to sit in expensive toy store displays — a crooked bob with uneven bangs, like he’d hacked it off himself. That’s why Jiro thought he was a girl at first. But his eyes… those were wild, feral — the kind that belonged to a stray dog. The second one was painfully ordinary — a boy with glasses, one of those bookworms who always asked about homework at school. Back then, Jiro wasn’t the brightest kid around and was honestly just happy the war had canceled school. And even if it hadn’t, their grandfather had said they didn’t have to go.

"You guys are sorcerers?" the boy with glasses asked, then stammered and quickly added, "My name’s Narumi! Please don’t be mad, I was just curious. I thought all sorcerers were adults… I’ve only ever seen grown-ups use sorcery. Are you locals?"

Jiro and Ichiro immediately pulled off their masks and strutted around the two brave kids. At their grandfather’s house, nobody cared about their sorcery — everyone in the family had it — and they rarely showed it to outsiders. But now they had an audience! Kids their own age, too. They hadn’t seen other children since the war began (most had probably been evacuated farther from the front), so this felt like a stroke of luck.

"Yeah, we’re sorcerers!"

"The real deal!"

"What about you, scavengers?" Jiro poked the boy with glasses in the chest, and he flinched, giving a nervous grin. "You don’t look like one at all!"

"Yeah, you look like you should be stuck at school doing homework, buddy!"

"The homework burned… and so did the school," Narumi’s face went pale for a moment, though he quickly tried to pull himself together. Still, his trembling voice gave him away. @Anyway, that’s our job. We find usable weapons and sell them to an armorer. That’s how we survive. What are you doing here?"

"Honestly? Just wandering around."

It was nice finding kids their age — and ones who hadn’t bolted at the first sign of trouble. They mostly talked to the boy with glasses, Narumi, and soon learned he’d once belonged to a decent family. Then the war wiped them all out. With nowhere else to go, he’d joined a gang of orphans because no one else gave a damn. Things were fine at first, but then the gang’s leader got too violent, and the poor kid couldn’t handle it anymore. The only one who didn’t pick on him was the other boy — the one Narumi called Genichi.

That one still glared at Jiro and Ichiro like a cornered dog ready to bite. What a psycho. Probably didn’t even care about Narumi — just tolerated him because he wasn’t annoying. Jiro had seen types like him in his grandfather’s old gang — the kind who killed people the way others stepped on ants. This one hadn’t killed anyone yet, but you could tell he was on that path.

"What, your friend’s mute or something?"

"Genichi…"

The doll-faced kid scowled but said nothing. He just tugged Narumi by the sleeve, and Narumi looked from him to the twins, torn. He started to say something, but the little brat’s expression darkened, and he gripped Narumi’s wrist harder.

"What a nasty little guy you’ve got there. Genichi, right?" Ichiro snorted.

A rusted sickle immediately pressed against his chest — the weapon the kid carried. Narumi darted between them, panicked, and blurted out in a shaky voice:

"He doesn’t like it when people call him by name. You’re not his friends! His name’s Sojo…"

"The hell? You expect me to show respect to this little rat? Not happening!"

The brat glared at him like he was about to calmly sink his teeth into Ichiro’s throat. Ichiro, always eager to start a fight, stepped forward, and the two of them locked eyes — a full-on staring contest. Idiots, Jiro thought with a sigh.

Narumi, clearly nervous, tried to defuse things:

"Genichi…"

"Everyone shut up," Jiro cut in, pointing at Sojo. "Don’t listen to this moron," Ichiro tried to kick him in the leg. "We’ve been watching scavengers come and go here for a while. None of them found jack shit. So what makes you think there’s anything here?"

Sojo rolled his eyes like he was surrounded by idiots and waved them to follow. Narumi hurried after him first. Watching them go, Jiro couldn’t help but laugh — some kids really loved acting like they were big shots. Ichiro, though, was clearly pissed. He’d always had trouble talking to people without sounding like he was picking a fight. Jiro was used to it — others usually got offended.

"We’ll just steal whatever he finds!"

Sojo spun on his heel, ready to throw that rusted sickle straight at him.

They might’ve actually fought if Jiro hadn’t stepped in — he didn’t see the point. He grabbed Ichiro before he could raise his knuckle, muttering that it wasn’t cool to beat up kids half their size. Sojo was maybe eleven. Ten, even. A tiny creature. In the end, the four of them trudged across the field together until Sojo suddenly stopped and began digging into the dirt with his bare hands. He’d have been at it forever on his own — scrawny as he was — so Jiro and Ichiro joined in out of sheer boredom, while Narumi paced anxiously behind them.

And finally, they found it.

A real katana. In its scabbard. In the ground?! How the hell did Sojo even guess it was buried there? Damn, that actually earned some respect.

Narumi, seeing his friend’s gleaming eyes, clearly already used to the art of scavenging, explained:

"A piece of the hilt was sticking out," Sojo straightened up and nodded, blowing his long bangs off his face. "But the blade wasn’t dropped; it was stuck in the earth. Must’ve been buried by some kind of earth sorcery. The other scavengers probably thought it was just a broken shard and didn’t bother digging. Genichi’s so smart!" Narumi chirped happily, circling around him. "He always finds the good weapons! Think we’ll get a lot for it?"

Ichiro, now calmer, snapped his fingers.

"We should take off the scabbard and check."

But of course, the show-off didn’t have the strength for it — the sword looked a bit rusted or maybe fused to the sheath. So Jiro snatched it from his hands, and the twins, grabbing the sheath and the hilt, pulled in opposite directions. It took a minute, but they finally drew the blade free. It looked… decent. Not like an army sword — cleaner, but still old. Their grandfather never let them handle weapons, so this was the first time Jiro had felt the weight of a real sword in his hands. Honestly? Not that impressive. Damn, and yet all those tough guys from Grandpa’s old gang used to brag, check out my sword… Suckers. He handed the sword to Sojo, who examined it with almost obsessive care. Then suddenly his eyes widened, and his tiny pupils became more visible. He jabbed his finger at an engraving, looking as though he’d discovered treasure. Narumi leaned closer and explained:

"There’s a craftsman’s mark here! Though I can’t tell which one…" Sojo, standing proudly beside him, looked pleased with himself. "Genichi’s really good at this! I’m learning, too. It’s fascinating!"

And just like that, it seemed as if all the rust had fallen away, and they were staring at a newly forged wonder of the world.

"Wow… So it’s worth a lot?" Jiro asked.

Sojo’s eyes sparkled like twin diamonds. He was so pleased with himself. Hilarious. Narumi, still acting as his interpreter, explained:

"A lot! Blades made by renowned masters can be incredibly valuable, depending on their condition and the batch they came from—" then he launched into a full lecture on the finer points of swordmaking, most of which Jiro half-tuned out. Apparently, Sojo had taught him all that — even though the lunatic hadn’t said a single word the entire time.

Still, it was kind of a nice change. A weird hobby, sure, but better than crying like most people did during the war.

Jiro let his attention drift, chuckling to himself, and then glanced back at where the rest of the scavenger kids had gone. A bad feeling prickled at him. That gang leader of theirs — he didn’t like him one bit. He exchanged a look with Ichiro, who nodded as if he’d read his mind. They’d better keep their eyes open.

"So where does your armorer live?" Jiro cut off Narumi’s long-winded monologue. Sojo flinched, like he’d just remembered there were others around, and Narumi’s face darkened as he grabbed his friend’s arm.

"What do you care?"

"Don’t take our hard-earned money from us, please," Narumi almost whimpered. Jiro thought, Yeah, definitely the kind of guy who got bullied at school. And probably in that gang too.

"We don’t give a damn about your money. It’s just—"

"Those punks from your gang — they bully you, don’t they?" Ichiro asked bluntly.

Narumi’s face went pale, while Sojo didn’t even twitch — just gave a cold, dismissive snort. You could tell right away he was the kind who endured everything on his feet, who wouldn’t care even if he were beaten half to death. A complete lunatic. Something must’ve happened to make him like that. Jiro was fascinated. He wanted to be friends with this crazy bastard. Guys like that were always the most fun. He could confirm it — his grandfather’s old gang had been full of them. The coolest ones were always the half-mad ones. Probably why the other kids left Sojo alone — you don’t mess with the quiet crazy.

Narumi glanced between his friend and the twins, then tried to sound brave:

"What’s it to you?"

"I just think those bastards are gonna follow you, jump you, and take the money," Jiro said plainly. "Not that we care, but… that’s just low. Rats’ business. Not what guys do."

"Weeeell… everything we find belongs to the group…" Narumi tried to justify their leader, but Sojo just clicked his tongue and shrugged. That argument seemed to convince him, and when he relaxed, Narumi did too. "In New Yoshiwara."

"Wait, you mean right next to the pretty ladies?!"

"He works there sometimes… fixing things."

New Yoshiwara was the red-light district — a place of whores and sex — something Jiro knew from the gossip of old men and their underlings. He was still too young to really get the appeal, but like any boy brushing up against puberty, he was starting to appreciate the abstract glory of the Female Boobs — mostly because that’s what men were supposed to do, not because he actually cared. He knew their grandfather sometimes hired prostitutes and licked their breasts; he and Ichiro had even spied on it once or twice through a crack in the wall, and found nothing interesting about it at all. That pleasure district was one of the few parts of the capital still standing — probably because it was like a nest of cockroaches. In wartime, sex was the easiest way to feel human again, which was why those people had so much money. And if you didn’t, well, you traded food rations instead.

New Yoshiwara wasn’t exactly close, but the twins had nothing better to do, so they decided to tag along. They felt like bodyguards as they followed the new kids, while Narumi, thrilled that someone actually cared, chattered the whole way — like a typical bookworm. Jiro kind of pitied him. Smart guy, sure, but not one cut out for street life. A homebody, a mama’s boy. Sojo, on the other hand, looked like their kind of kid — wild and cracked in the head. A real one.

It took them a couple of hours to get there, and by the end, Jiro was dead tired and already dreading their grandfather’s scolding when they got home. Then again, what else did they have to do? The old man was busy with his own affairs, and he knew the twins could handle themselves. Those two, though — they were just regular kids. What if those other teens came after them again? That question lingered.

"If they’re bullying you, why stick around with them?" he finally asked.

Sojo didn’t even blink, pretending not to hear, while Narumi laughed awkwardly.

"Weeell… I’ve got nowhere else to go. They can be mean sometimes, and rough… but they still help out!" his voice strained, like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else. Jiro figured maybe those bastards were scum, but at least they didn’t abandon him. Rats, they might be, but rats still feel safer in a pack. "They took me in when… um… " Narumi hesitated.

"Right. You’re an orphan."

Narumi didn’t answer, but his eyes blinked fast — trying to hide tears. Jiro actually felt sorry for him. He didn’t know what to make of the kid. They hadn’t really talked to other children before, and they’d only seen orphans from afar or heard about them from their grandfather and his old cronies. But losing everything like that… that couldn’t be easy. Nothing to laugh at.

"You didn’t… see it happen, did you?"

"No. A neighbor told me. My mom, she… when the house collapsed… After that, they sent me to a refugee camp, and that’s where I met Genichi!" his voice brightened as he turned toward his silent friend. "If it weren’t for him, I don’t know what I’d have done. He’s my best friend!"

Ichiro and Jiro burst out laughing in unison.

"Aww, how cute!"

"Best friends forever!"

"Now kiss!"

"Laugh all you want! I mean it!" Narumi snapped, cheeks flushed, and Jiro couldn’t help but grin wider.

As if he hadn’t heard any of that conversation, Sojo suddenly snorted, and Narumi darted over to him. He grabbed the boy’s hand and squeezed it tightly, and Jiro thought — yeah, that one definitely got bullied at school. And he’d probably be dead by now if he hadn’t found himself a friend like that mute psychopath. But Sojo was still a mystery to him: he looked tiny, but he didn’t act like the kids younger than Ichiro and Jiro. Then again, war hardened people — that much he understood well enough, though he and his brother had learned cruelty mostly from their grandfather’s work.

“And what about you, Genichi? What happened to you?” the boy just shrugged. “Don’t wanna talk?” still no real answer. “Come on, don’t be secretive! We’re not gonna laugh, it’s not that kind of thing. Just curious!”

“There’s nothing interesting about it,” Narumi suddenly cut in, his voice deadly serious.

So they had each other’s backs, huh?

“How old are you?” Ichiro suddenly asked, and Sojo, clearly irritated by all this idle talk about him, shot the twins a venomous look. But Narumi knew the answer and declared proudly:

“Twelve. Well, almost. Eleven, but I’ll be twelve soon!”

The twins instantly perked up and started circling the two like flies.

“Whaaat?! No way! You’re lying! You can’t be a year older than us!”

“He lies as easily as he breathes!”

“Don’t be jealous, little brats,” Narumi stuck his tongue out at them, and Jiro thought it might be a great time to start a brawl.

But in the end, they just ran around chasing each other, and even a grumpy dog like Sojo gave in and joined the play; after all, they were still kids.

Soon, New Yoshiwara appeared on the horizon — an incredibly luxurious place compared to the ruins surrounding it. Though Jiro quickly noticed the glamour was fake: despite the apparent wealth, the women’s clothes weren’t especially clean or new, their makeup was simpler than it should’ve been, and the houses were only decorated on the facades. War had touched everyone. Usually, ordinary folks weren’t allowed in this district — there was supposed to be security at the gate, or so their grandfather had said — but now no one cared. The children slipped in easily through the rooftops and soon reached the outer streets, followed by the laughter and glances of women to whom Ichiro and Jiro waved politely, just as their grandfather had taught them it was proper to do.

The armorer turned out to be an unshaven man of uncertain age with long tangled hair and a crooked wooden prosthetic instead of a leg. No wonder he hadn’t gone to war. He came out a couple of minutes after Sojo had been pounding insistently on his door, and when he saw the pack of kids, he groaned:

“Didn’t I tell you not to come unless it’s important? Especially at night! I already feel guilty working with kids!” but he shut up the moment Sojo shoved a sword in its scabbard into his hands, his moral objections forgotten instantly. “Ooooh, what a pretty toy. All right… Kiriko-chan! We’ve got guests — put your panties back on, please?”

Jiro’s eyes went wide, and he tried to peek inside, but by the time they entered, the woman — clearly one of the local prostitutes, in cheap bright makeup and with blackened teeth — had already thrown on a robe. Damn! He’d really wanted to see!

While he and Ichiro shook their heads in disappointment, silently cursing fate for denying them a glimpse of the Beautiful, the armorer sat at his table and drew the sword from its scabbard. He whistled, set it down separately, and stared straight into Sojo’s eyes.

“Where’d you dig this up?” Sojo just extended his hand, making it clear he only cared about the money. The armorer snorted and grabbed him by the ear, making him yelp. “Listen, kid, that’s called small talk. I don’t give a damn where you found it, but you gotta learn to be a charming bastard. That way, people’ll trust you. Keep acting like a little shit, and you’ll die like one! Look at Narumi-kun here, what a fine young man!”

Narumi positively glowed with pride.

“But you — your face’s so scary, you should be collecting debts, not selling swords! And who are these two morons with you?”

“Bodyguards,” Narumi replied curtly, and the twins grinned, deciding to play along.

“We’re hired muscle!”

“From the Inugami family!”

“We’ll tear anyone apart!”

“Inugami…?” the armorer’s face darkened, and Jiro realized maybe mentioning their grandfather’s name wasn’t the brightest move. “I hope you’re just pretending," the twins simultaneously slapped on dog masks and said boo, but unlike most people, the armorer was clearly unimpressed. "I worked with that group once… probably where your folks came from, huh? Be careful. Seriously. You never know who might get pissed off and take a swing at you. Sure, you’re sorcerers, but idiots can be sorcerers too! I’d rather not have one of your old folks come cut off my fingers. Or my head.”

Ugh, guys who knew their grandpa and the gang were no fun at all! So in the end, they didn’t even manage to scare him. The armorer just took the sword, handed over some cash, and that was that. He’d probably resell it to looters later — the weapon trade was thriving these days. Easier than getting a license, especially during wartime. Grandpa always grumbled that the army was too fat on its own privilege anyway. Jiro didn’t really get the details — none of them did, except maybe the armorer — but it was clear the man had found himself a steady income source in desperate kids who needed food and money. They probably weren’t his only “clients.” Working here, in New Yoshiwara, he clearly knew where to find easy money to feed his little army of children.

Still, he’d paid them well. Enough for a week of easy living, at least. Must’ve been a damn good sword. Sojo definitely had an eye for quality.

When they finally left the shack, evening had already begun to fall. The district came alive — soldiers from the nearby garrison swarming in to see their favorite ladies. But the boys stuck to the backstreets, where the cheap or sick women worked. At first, Jiro thought that was just to avoid being seen, but soon realized Sojo was headed there deliberately. He stopped in front of a small house and knocked.

A pale-faced woman opened the door, coughing into her sleeve.

“Gen-chan!” she clearly knew him, and her face brightened up. She ruffled his hair tenderly, and Jiro felt just a little (just a tiny bit) jealous.“You came to see Chiyoko again? She’ll be so happy.”

She kept talking as Sojo slipped inside. Narumi and the twins stayed outside; Narumi rocked back and forth on his heels, waiting for his friend, while Jiro wondered what the hell a twelve-year-old was doing in a place like this with some woman named Chiyoko. When he and Ichiro exchanged a look at Narumi, the boy coughed awkwardly and explained carefully:

“Chiyoko… Sakuragi-san — she’s his friend.”

“Friend, huh?” the twins drawled mockingly, and Narumi shook his finger sternly.

“It’s not like that! You’ve got the wrong idea! I heard—” he lowered his voice, and Jiro perked up his ears, sensing a secret, “—that during the winter they helped each other. You know how hungry it got when the war started,” Jiro didn’t, really, but he’d heard stories from their grandfather. “He used to steal rations for the girls here, and Chiyoko let him stay with her. Then she got injured, don’t know what happened exactly, but she lost an arm and an eye. She’s recovering now. He brings her part of the money we make.”

Wow. That was… noble. Jiro thought so, but didn’t say anything. Why not? If they were friends and she’d helped him, then Sojo was just paying his debt. Grandpa always said — debts had to be paid.

When Sojo finally came out, a woman followed him — a thin figure with tangled black hair and bandages covering half her face. So that must’ve been Sakuragi herself. They probably weren’t supposed to see that scene, because she bent down to hug him, and Sojo made a face like he’d just swallowed a lemon whole. As he joined the group, the twins instantly pretended they’d seen nothing.

“Sakuragi-san! Good evening!” Narumi called out cheerfully. Then he turned to Sojo, whose face was now cycling through several interesting shades of red. Oh-ho, was that embarrassment? “Come on, let’s go. Don’t want our leader getting mad again. Hey, Genichi, what’s wrong?”

“Yeah, Gen-chan?” the twins circled him like vultures. “What’s wrong?”

Sojo stood there, looking like he wished the earth would swallow him whole, but then he suddenly grabbed Jiro’s sleeve. Jiro froze, expecting something bad, but a miracle happened: the crazy mute spoke. And his voice… well, okay, it was just a normal voice. Nothing special.

“Here,” Sojo shoved the money into their hands.

Jiro blinked.

“The bastard who leads our gang is gonna take all of it soon. Every coin. But he won’t find it if you keep it. Tomorrow, we’ll meet again, and you’ll give it back.”

The twins grinned in unison. Now that was a plan.

“And what makes you think we’ll give it back?”

“Because you’ll want to hang out with us again. Right?”

Damn, Jiro realized, the little bastard was right. Life with just Ichiro was boring — but these two? They were fun. And yeah, they would go looking for them tomorrow. Sojo had played them like a fiddle. Jiro was so impressed, he forgot to even get mad — until much later, when he and his brother were already on their way home.

“So? How’s he doing?”

Sometimes his brother asked the dumbest questions in the world — the kind Jiro had no idea how to answer — so he just shot him a look. Ichiro was standing by the window, staring out into nothing, drumming his fingers nervously on the sill. Outside, cold rain was lashing down. Disgusting weather. Then Jiro’s gaze dropped to the bed beside him, where his head rested — he’d nearly passed out from lack of sleep. Sometimes they came here to keep watch; there was nothing else to do anyway, and at least this way it felt like they weren’t abandoning the boss. He’d nodded off next to Sojo’s hand, the one with all the tubes stuck in it. A couple of times, he’d checked the pulse, afraid the boss might die in his sleep, but Sojo clung to life like a mad dog, fighting to survive any way he could. At least, that’s what Noriko said — that she was sure he’d wake up eventually. Said he was too damn stubborn to die; she hadn’t had a patient that stubborn in years. Jiro figured he might as well believe her.

The boss’s arm had gone thin and bony, with swollen blue veins bulging beneath the skin — honestly, not a pleasant sight. Like an old man’s hand. The rest of him had shrunk too. Well, no wonder, all that time lying still, being fed through a tube.

“He’s fine… sleeping.”

Two weeks now, sleeping like the dead. Not a single sign he’d ever wake up.

He looked pitiful. If Jiro hadn’t known it was Sojo, he’d never have recognized him. No surprise there — his whole body looked like one giant wound, barely anything left of the man he’d been. After first surviving the explosion and then getting buried in the collapse, it was easier to find a spot on him that hadn’t been hurt — there were hardly any. Now he looked more like a mummy out of one of those dumb old horror flicks. What were they called again…? Damn, Jiro realized he hadn’t watched a movie in ages. Maybe he should have a little marathon or something. Something without explosions, preferably — he’d had enough of those.

He sneaked a glance at Sojo’s face. The only remaining eye was shut (of course). He actually looked kind of cute, but really bad, so it wasn't that good, as Jiro thought. The whole face was bandaged, just a small bit of skin showing. Pale as hell — the guy hadn’t had much melanin to begin with, but now he was practically white, which made the dark hollows under his eyes even starker. Grim sight. Jiro reached out and traced a finger along his cheekbone, then propped his head on his hand.

“We should shave him before he wakes up and starts being a bitch.”

“Then you do it,” his brother snorted from behind.

“Shut up, asshole,” Jiro hissed back.

“What, why so shy? He’s out cold anyway.” Ichiro came over and slapped him on his bald head. “You’re the expert now, huh?”

They’d made a pact between them: since their gang was finished, they should at least change their looks a bit, so they wouldn’t stand out as the last scraps of Sojo’s crew. Trouble was, there wasn’t much they could do — so they just shaved off their mohawks. Hurt to do it, but they’d been shaving their heads for years anyway, so it wasn’t a huge loss. Now they were growing normal hair back. Sojo would be thrilled when he woke up; he’d always hated their haircuts, saying they were idiotic. But who knew when that would be?

Jiro looked over at the boss again. Without that constant threatening glare — the one that made him look like a rabid dog — he actually seemed… different. Peaceful, almost. Kind of made you feel sorry for him. But once he opened his eyes, the charm would vanish instantly — that was guaranteed. And once he started talking, you’d want to cry. For now, though… Jiro patted his arm gently. Sojo didn’t react.

You could say he was lucky — sleeping through it all, no problems, no worries. But nobody wanted that kind of luck.

“Think he’ll be furious when he finds out we lost everything?” Ichiro’s voice came from behind.

Jiro shrugged and stood up. He wanted a smoke.

“Nah. He’s not that dumb. I mean, he is, but he is not completely stupid. He’ll get pissed, sure, but then he’ll figure something out. Or we’ll just lie low somewhere, the three of us, live… I dunno, wherever. We’ll think about it when he wakes up. For now… no point worrying,” he scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Better idea for now — let’s go grab some booze,” a pause. “And watch a movie.”

November came, which meant the infamous Sazanami family auction was just around the corner. That was where Sojo was supposedly going to sell the sixth enchanted blade of Rokuhira Kunishige, though in reality the real seller was that shady guy named Yura, whom Jiro and Ichiro had seen a couple of times. Sometimes Jiro caught himself wanting to reach out to Sazanami Kyora and, for a reasonable fee, ask him to start a hunt for Rokuhira — since that brat was sure to show up at the auction anyway, chasing revenge or whatever. But something told him that mustached bastard already knew all about it. He kind of wanted to go there himself, to track down Rokuhira and get payback — the little son of a bitch had been stirring up the underworld, taking out shadow brokers left and right. But Jiro knew his limits. Before, he might’ve believed he and his brother could take the kid out — especially since the guy had come into the lab half-dead. But now? Now it’d definitely end badly for them.

While the name Goldfish kept echoing through the underground, the brothers were living the dullest lives imaginable. They’d rented a room next to Noriko-san’s underground clinic, raided all the cash stashes they knew about — just in case — and kept visiting the boss, who was still in a coma.

He hadn’t woken up, even after a couple more weeks. Sometimes Jiro started to worry — what if he never woke up? What if he was just… stuck like that forever? Still, he’d made up his mind: they’d wait a year, and if nothing changed by then, they’d move on. He didn’t like thinking that way, but he wasn’t going to waste his whole life waiting for the boss to open his eyes, no matter how long they’d been friends. Jiro could be ruthless about those things.

For now, though, only a few weeks had passed — and they could still afford to hope for the best. Sojo — or maybe they should start calling him by his real name again, like back when they were equals — had always been the kind of guy who hated being touched without a damn good reason. Not the casual kind — punches, slaps, kicks were fine — but real touching, the kind that left him exposed. A fear of helplessness, maybe? He didn’t even let the girls he picked up for the night do that. Not that he did that often, from what Jiro had heard. Only sometimes, when the lack of sleep hit hard, because real sleep wasn’t for people who worked underground. He had a whole shittone of rules about that.

Now, there wasn’t much choice. He and his brother had basically taken over for Noriko — not that she wanted to take care of Sojo, but she loved money too much to refuse — and they often helped out. Washing him down with a sponge, that sort of thing. Jiro couldn’t deny that it made him uneasy. He wasn’t used to seeing the boss so helpless. Sojo had grown weak. A shadow of his former self. Not the man they used to follow. Then again, they’d known each other since childhood — this wasn’t the first time Jiro had seen him like this. The real question was, did the boss remember those times himself?

Anyway, the routine went on. The boss still didn’t wake. Jiro switched from his favorite smokes to cheap mint-flavored ones. Sometimes they watched movies. And waited.

That day — three days before the auction — he was sitting on the clinic steps, smoking. Ichiro had gone out to grab some food from a noodle shop down the street. Jiro stared absently at the gray sky. Third month of autumn. Winter was coming. Shit. Time to figure out what to do next…

While he was mulling over the future, he didn’t notice the approaching footsteps until they were almost on top of him. When a shadow fell across him, he looked up — and his heart skipped a beat.

A man in the Kamunabi uniform.

Jiro immediately tried to pull on his mask and attack, but the man — somewhere between young and middle-aged, with a bang covering one eye — kicked him straight through the clinic door. Jiro smashed it open, rolled across the floor, and slammed into the wall. The noise brought Noriko running. As Jiro staggered to his feet, the Kamunabi sorcerer flashed a badge with a stag emblem and said in a cold, detached voice:

“We have reason to believe you’re hiding a criminal we’re searching for.”

“I’ll shove your badge up your ass, you bastard!” Jiro yelled, moving toward him, but Noriko jumped between them and hissed:

“Enough!” then she shot a glare at the soldier. “Stop wrecking my clinic! Are you planning to put that door back on its hinges?!”

“Ma’am,” he replied evenly, “you’ve got the number-one name on the Kamunabi’s blacklist under your roof, and you’re worried about a door.”

“That’s not an excuse to kick it down! What’s your rank?” she narrowed her eyes, studying him. Jiro had no clue about the Kamunabi ranks, but she suddenly stiffened. “Colonel…? Wait, I know you,” that made Jiro tense up. “They call you the Executioner.”

The Executioner. Yeah — Jiro had heard of him. Some guy who wiped out gangs solo when they got too bold. Creepy bastard, a professional killer in all but name. Jiro sometimes wondered how Sojo had managed to stay on top so long, given how much he and Kamunabi hated each other. But then again, arms dealing had always been tied to Big Brother — the government had to be getting a cut. That’s probably why Sojo had been allowed to keep operating right under their noses. The kill order had only come after he got his hands on that enchanted sword — made him too dangerous, too tempting a target. Especially since those Kamunabi idiots had lost track of all the blades, and they’d ended up with the Hishaku gang instead. But Sojo didn’t have the sword anymore!

There was no way Jiro was letting the boss get taken out now — not after all he and Ichiro had done to save him. He reached for his mask again, ready to fight, but the colonel met his glare with an unreadable expression. The air itself buzzed with killing intent. Then, after a moment, the man raised his hands as if in surrender and sighed.

“Alright. Let’s stop before we make an even bigger mess. You work for Sojo, right?” Jiro’s face darkened. He said nothing. “That was just me being polite, you piece of shit. I know who you are. I’ve got a few questions for your boss. I don’t have a direct order to kill him — yet — but we already know he’s alive. We’ve been watching you.”

… well, of course, those government bloodhounds had sniffed them out. A blast that size — only an idiot would’ve missed it. They’d probably shown up right after and seen them digging the boss out of the rubble. After a pause, Jiro dropped his hands and muttered irritably:

“Boss hasn’t woken up since that day. He can’t tell you shit.”

He almost added: so back off, he’s no threat to you anymore, but bit his tongue. If he’d said that, he was pretty sure Sojo would’ve woken up right then just to beat the crap out of him for tarnishing his pride.

“How bad is it?” the colonel asked, turning to Noriko.

Still eyeing the broken door, she growled:

“If you’ve been watching us, you already know. That bad.”

“Shame,” he said, though he didn’t sound the least bit sad. “Because I need that information from him as soon as possible. But that can be fixed. Show me where he is.”

Noriko’s eyes went wide. She shook her head sharply.

“What are you planning, Colonel?!”

But he didn’t listen.

The colonel strode forward, quick and sure, with Noriko rushing after him — and Jiro, snapping out of it, followed close behind. Shit, if that bastard even touched the boss, even with one finger—

But by the time he burst into the room, it was too late. Like a vulture, the government agent was already leaning over the bed, as if deciding where to sink his teeth first. His eyes had gone darker than night, and Jiro charged at him, ready to risk everything just to stop that asshole from doing anything. He forgot everything — his safety, the fact that the colonel had already seen him — and that split second of recklessness cost him. The man looked up and drove a fist straight into Jiro, slamming him into the floor — merciful enough not to crack his skull or punch a hole through the parquet. Blood ran from Jiro’s nose. The room spun. Through the haze, he saw the colonel take two coins from his pocket and flip them into the air.

Shit. He should’ve… he should’ve—

The colonel looked over at Noriko and gave her a smile. Not a nice one.

Then — a flash of lightning.

Tiny, barely visible, like the spark of a tram cable in the rain — Jiro caught it by sheer miracle. But Sojo’s body arched sharply, and then he coughed and opened his one remaining eye, finally waking up.

Jiro had no idea what the colonel and the boss talked about after that, because they shoved him out of the room. But he heard voices from inside. Amazing, really — Sojo woke up and started talking right away. A miracle, no doubt. He feared the boss might get killed on the spot — or worse — but his head was pounding too hard to think straight. The colonel had clocked him good.

By the time Ichiro came back — right as Noriko finished patching Jiro up with a bit of her sorcery — the door to the room opened again. The colonel stepped out, looking very satisfied. At least there was no smell of blood, and his hands were clean. So…

While Ichiro stared at him in confusion, Jiro croaked out,

“So what the hell did you do in there?”

“Asked a few questions,” the colonel replied curtly, glancing at him. “But I’ll need more. I’ll be back.”

“You mean…”

“I’ve got no reason to kill your boss,” his face twisted into a mocking, superior grin that made Jiro want to smash it in. “Relax. If you cooperate, this’ll go a lot easier for everyone.”

“You’re out of your damn mind!” Ichiro barked, but the colonel just cracked his knuckles as a warning.

He handed Noriko a business card, told her to contact him later about the door, and walked out. No one tried to stop him.

The twins exchanged a look — then bolted into the room, ignoring Noriko-san’s shout that the patient needed rest after such a shock. She followed them in but didn’t push them out, letting them finally see the boss in all his glory. Or what was left of it. “Glory” wasn’t exactly the word anymore — Sojo lay curled up on the bed like a worm. But he was conscious. He moved differently now. Breathed differently. When Noriko gently rolled him onto his back to check his vitals, he let out a faint groan.

Jiro, awkward and unsure what to say, muttered,

“So what the hell did that freak do to him?”

“He’s from a family of sorcerers who specialize in electromagnetic therapy,” Noriko said, still examining Sojo. “I think he just… stimulated his muscles and brain. Gave us a little push.”

Her voice faltered at the end, and Jiro frowned. Yeah, right — if a Kamunabi agent wanted something, it never meant anything good. But he didn’t know what else to say. He just watched as Ichiro crawled up to the other side of the bed and rested his head beside the boss’s arm — like a loyal dog overjoyed that its master had finally woken up. What could you even do here? So Jiro sighed and joined him — let himself enjoy the moment, just for a little while — and decided they’d deal with whatever came next later.

Just as he expected, the moment Sojo woke up, he became an unbearable damn bitch.

Well, that was predictable. He had always been like that — a hysterical asshole; if something didn’t go his way, everyone knew about it, and his cruelty could reach absurd extremes. But now, being cruel didn’t really work for Sojo, so instead, he just annoyed everyone. Still, Jiro was almost glad — at least the boss was alive. He couldn’t smoke, or eat, or drink anything heavy, and he suffered — theatrically, dramatically, making a show of it. Sometimes Jiro wondered maybe they should have let the colonel kill him. But those were harmless thoughts.

On the day of the auction, nothing spectacular happened at the clinic. Noriko-san still didn’t want to release the patient, fearing he might collapse again. And Sojo couldn’t escape anyway — he didn’t even have the strength to stand.

Today it was Jiro’s turn to handle all the preparations: buying groceries, cooking porridge according to Noriko’s recipe — the only food she allowed after weeks of IV nutrition. Almost liquid, with barely any taste. Jiro knew that not only because he had tried it himself (not confident in his culinary skills), but also because the boss had already started whining that it wasn’t food, it was shit. Noriko-san was strict, and Sojo clearly feared her enough to be an obedient boy: to eat the porridge, to listen to Noriko, and to talk with that colonel from Kamunabi who had visited him a couple of times.

When Jiro entered the room, he saw Ichiro sitting on the bed behind the boss, changing fresh bandages. Judging by the sponge in the basin, he had skipped the bath routine. Jiro smirked inwardly. Yeah, nothing like the boss’s usual love for extravagant baths — a pitiful imitation. Ichiro didn’t even glance at him, but Sojo immediately locked eyes with Jiro. One eye, at least; the other wandered around, replaced with a prosthetic. Some of the facial bandages had finally been removed, revealing just how badly he’d been hurt — almost the entire right side of his face was pink with burns, the hair on the left side grown out normally, while the right side was charred. Noriko-san said she had worked on it, that the burn would slowly disappear…

Ichiro sat on the bed, and Sojo kicked him with his bare heel.

“Are you fucking stupid?”

“Back off,” Jiro waved him off lightly. “Your lunch is cooling, and I’m tired. I want to rest.”

“Oh, look at that, our tired beauty…” Ichiro rolled his eyes behind him, then leaned over the boss. “Not too tight?”

“Nope. Perfect.”

Harmonious little birds, Jiro thought irritably, watching Ichiro adjust the pillow, drape the warm blanket over Sojo’s shoulders, and help him lie down. Even such a small action seemed to drain the boss’s strength. No surprise… Jiro knew he would have done the same in Ichiro’s place. Just that today, he had a different role, so he could afford to be a little more nasty than usual. He just watched Ichiro fuss over Sojo; the boss’s displeased expression had ebbed, leaving only a painful pallor as he closed his eye. Simple bandages, and he was already exhausted. He even looked smaller.

Not wanting to stare too long, Jiro looked away and asked,

“Did that agent come by today?”

“Nah. They’ve got tons of important shit. The auction, you know.”

Sojo opened his eye.

“And where there’s an auction, there’s…”

“Rokuhira,” Ichiro finished in a grim voice.

“Well, if he hasn’t come for us yet, the agent probably didn’t tell him.”

“Maybe they’re on different sides. He’s being hunted too, from what I hear.”

“They’re on the same side,” Sojo interrupted, frowning his thin eyebrows. “When we first met, he saved his ass from me. He doesn’t hide it… at least not when he talks to me.”

“And what does he want?”

“The info about the Hishaku, of course. No surprise…” Sojo’s eyes scanned the room out of habit, probably searching for cigarettes, then cursed and slid down on the pillow. “Noriko-san told you? Those bastards implanted a seed in me, in case I started babbling. The agent sensed it with his sorcery.”

Jiro had never liked the Hishaku, especially their leader, Yura. There was something slippery about him, like a snake, and his subordinates were no better — though a couple were amusing, like that guy Kuguri, who came to Sojo for advice. He was alright. But Yura and that guy in the hat… the very idea of the implanted bomb didn’t surprise him, but he wondered — when? Could Yura really distrust Sojo so much that, despite giving him the trusted enchanted sword — the only usable one of the six — he still implanted a failsafe?

“But they took it out, right? Now it won’t work?”

Sojo just nodded and closed his eyes again, clearly tired, unwilling to speak further. He was angry — visible in the small details of his face — and Jiro understood why. They had played him, used him, stolen the research. Sent him to be torn apart by Rokuhira, to see what would happen if two swordsmen clashed. Used as a sacrificial lamb. But what could Sojo do now? A miracle he was conscious. And that thanks to the colonel’s sorcery. Facing Yura or Rokuhira was beyond his strength.

Noon was approaching. The auction would start soon. And so would Rokuhira’s appearance.

Jiro monitored underground forums for any info, and it said that somehow Sazanami Kyora had gotten hold of that brat’s sword. They decided not to tell Sojo, convincing the colonel to stay silent, too. He was surprised — why would I even tell him? — but not an idiot; he knew how his valuable source would react, so he agreed. Unlike most Kamunabi lackeys, this one at least was cooperative. For a while, Jiro scrolled through forum messages, mostly posts from guards exchanging insults and crude jokes. Typical and boring. But then someone wrote that a chandelier had fallen in the hall, and the Goldfish had appeared at the entrance. Panic broke out. Jiro wondered how he would fight without his sword, and…

The only report from a fleeing eyewitness said that Rokuhira used a lightning sword.

Not just him — Ichiro saw it too. They exchanged a glance, then quickly turned to the boss. And Sojo, as if sensing it, snapped his eyes open and glared at them darkly.

“Why so tense? Watching the stream?”

Hiding made no sense anymore, so Jiro handed him the phone. Sojo took it carefully and read the messages, then his face darkened instantly.

“I see. Well…” he handed the phone back. “Now we’ve figured it out the hard way — if you die, even for a moment, the contract resets. I can’t imagine what Rokuhira’s using there… just fragments left of the sword… Argh! That’s it! Fucking hell. I’m pissed. Wake me if anything interesting happens. I don’t even want to think about that bastard using my sword.”

He pulled the blanket over himself and turned away. Jiro gave him a skeptical look before glancing back at the phone.

The messages were fragmented. Some Kamunabi woman had jumped into the fray, clearly after Rokuhira. Then they disappeared. Someone wrote that Sazanami Kyora was running the auction without the Tou’s protection… which meant the old man was probably waiting for Rokuhira, and now the hunters were on him. But it seemed like most of the action was happening off-screen — a silence hung for a moment until an unknown user raised the alarm: Sazanami Kyora had swapped himself for a hologram and was fighting Rokuhira… on some broadcast. After that, everything blurred: chaos in the hall, fire, explosions, and finally, Rokuhira wounding Sazanami Kyora. Then — silence. Sharp, as if all the auction witnesses had died. Only the occasional curious question from those outside.

Jiro’s eyes were glued to the screen, barely noticing that the boss behind him suddenly moved and abruptly sat up, twitching only the moment a short message appeared in the chat.

The Shinuchi has been used.

The auction hall bloomed.

The Shinuchi… Could the sword be used while the owner was still alive?

Jiro was distracted as the boss behind him suddenly doubled over and groaned.

“Hey, Genichi, what—”

He didn’t finish. And there was no point — Sojo clearly couldn’t hear him. He wrapped his one arm around himself, teeth clenched tight, sweat streaming down his suddenly pale face. But that wasn’t what terrified Jiro. It was what moved beneath the fresh bandages on Sojo’s back — lumps shifting, like small hills under the skin. He remembered vaguely seeing this once, many years ago, during the war. Back then… from such lumps, they had carved flowers under the skin, and…

The auction hall bloomed… The Shinuchi…

“Go get Noriko-san!” he barked at Ichiro, who shot out of the room like an arrow. Jiro grabbed a rag from the table and wrapped his thumb, then shouted: “Come on! Or you’ll bite your own tongue off!”

Sojo struggled to collect himself and obeyed. Jiro winced in pain as the boss bit down on his thumb, but it was nothing compared to the pain Sojo must have been feeling. Of course, it wasn’t like what he’d seen twenty years ago — there were far fewer strange lumps under the skin now, but unlike back then, these continued to grow. Like the echo of a sword used decades ago… A terrifying and hypnotic sight… When one of the lumps seemed to burst and a flower emerged, breaking through the skin and beginning to bloom as if feeding on blood, Jiro reached for it, intending to rip it out… He seemed to forget everything, not noticing how the boss was shivering violently beside him in agony. He nearly touched the flower, but didn’t. Noriko-san burst into the room with Ichiro, and seeing the scene, instantly rallied and commanded them to follow. There was nothing left to do but hoist the boss onto his shoulder and run after her.

By evening, he felt broken and utterly drained.

The Rakuzaichi auction had fallen. Sazanami Kyora was killed. Almost everyone in the auction house had died — either under the rubble or from the Shinuchi — and the survivors had fled, unwilling to show their faces, fearing the Kamunabi would come after them. Watching the hysteria ripple through the underground was exhausting, so he turned off his phone, flopped onto the bed, and glared at the boss lying beside him. Noriko-san had hit him with a massive dose of morphine because the pain was excruciating, and now, completely spent, he slept on his stomach. He looked awful, feverish.

Right after the procedure, Noriko-san had asked sternly:

“I’ve never seen anything like this. Is this delayed sorcery?”

“The enchanted sword,” Ichiro had muttered weakly.

Jiro thought — damn, it must be traces from the past. From the war. Back then, flowers had bloomed too, but hadn’t pierced the skin, so they had to be removed. Apparently, not everything had been cut out, and the remaining dormant buds had now bloomed, responding to the call of the sword that created them. Twenty years this shit had been waiting… And probably not just in him. Many people had suffered. But he didn’t care about anyone else — the priority was the boss. Jiro glanced at him again. Asleep. Deep, definitely not waking anytime soon. Sweat-damp hair fell over his face, and Jiro brushed it away. Shit… and it had started so well…

In the end, he left the boss with his brother and stepped out onto the porch to light a cigarette. His mood was terrible. It worsened when he saw the colonel in plain clothes approaching. The guy’s taste in civilian clothing wasn’t good at all, but Jiro decided not to comment and simply exhaled cigarette smoke in the agent’s direction. The man didn’t even flinch — still the same polite bastard.

“I need to speak with your boss.”

“Forget it,” Jiro stubbed out the cigarette on the step and leaned back, almost sprawling across the porch. Finally, he’d get to rub it in the agent’s face with his endless demands. “He’s not just unable to talk to you — he can’t talk at all right now.”

“Bad mood again?”

No, he found it amusing, the son of a bitch. Watch this.

“Heard what happened at the auction?” the colonel’s face didn’t change, but his eyes darkened slightly. “Let’s just say it had consequences.”

“Pardon?”

Jiro rummaged in his pocket for another cigarette.

“The sprouts from the war bloomed.”

He hadn’t wanted to tell this because Sojo would get pissed, but this was the easiest way to make the agent back off. Still, he worried the colonel might demand more explanation. But the colonel understood immediately. That was a little scary. He stood there for a moment, seemingly unsure what to say, then rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.

“Oh. Not good, isn’t it?”

“Didn’t you already get everything from him?”

“I had questions about today,” this time, the colonel decided not to push, speaking deceptively softly, though the threat in his voice was still there. “Well, that’s unfortunate. Then I won’t bother you.”

He left so fast that Jiro was surprised; he expected this piece of shit to nag for at least ten more minutes. Did he really believe it? Though he was the Executioner… he surely knew about the Shinuchi and understood Jiro had no reason to lie. Only someone who had seen it could describe such a thing. But still — why? Why had the old wounds opened? Resonated? What was happening in the places where the sword had been used?

Questions without answers.

He went upstairs, where Ichiro sat half-interested in the TV. Even the news reported that the auction house had collapsed. Well, no kidding — the Sazanami family had once terrified everyone, and now... The boss hadn’t woken, and Jiro glanced at his back, bandaged, streaked with brown marks, without much pleasure. The tattoo was gone. What a pity, of course… He remembered how it had been inked, how difficult and long it had been. And now, in some damn month, Sojo had more scars than in his whole life. His eyelashes fluttered in sleep, and Jiro checked his skin. Still hot.

Ichiro turned off the TV, looking at the boss with uncertainty.

“Think he’ll recover?”

“What else would he do?”

And he was right; Sojo not only recovered but also managed to drive them insane with his whining.

Alright. He wasn’t as unbearable as he could’ve been. Sure, he whined a little for show, complaining about how miserable he felt, but then behaved like a good boy (maybe Noriko-san had threatened him). In reality, even though Jiro could barely stand his character (he never complained when it mattered, but without a proper reason — endlessly), he would have let him grumble because Sojo had really been through hell, but he didn’t voice that thought — otherwise, Sojo would’ve fully transformed into an insufferable bastard. Unfortunately, because of all this, he had to spend another week and a half in the clinic. However, Sojo was always a restless jerk, and soon he got tired of lying around and asked to be allowed out (to Noriko-san’s relief, too).

That didn’t mean he was fully healthy yet. Before leaving, she read him a long list of instructions — what he could and couldn’t do — and some of it made Jiro laugh because of the faces the boss pulled when Noriko-san said:

“No hot baths,” hilarious, his face. “No nicotine,” Sojo sighed for the umpteenth time. “No alcohol…”

The list was solid, covering nearly everything the boss loved. Ridiculous. So he left the clinic looking like he had been handed over to some temple where they forced him to follow a ridiculously bland diet, which, in fact, was pretty accurate.

By the time they exited, Ichiro had brought the car — one of many in their possession, from their intact hideout rather than the destroyed lab. The boss could barely stand, so Jiro guided him by the arm. Sojo was surely annoyed, but he knew pride wouldn’t help him stand right now, so he just walked with a sour expression. Winter was approaching, so they bundled him in several layers, just in case this pack of bones caught a cold. Once in the car, he shed his jacket and cracked his neck, then lay down on the back seat. Jiro joined Ichiro in the front.

“So, where to? Or should we go by our taste?”

“Hmmmm…” Sojo sounded like he’d been thinking about it for a while, preparing to launch into a pompous tirade about possible hideouts. “Honestly, we'd better get out of the city. Preferably until everything calms down. If the Hishaku has started moving, we need to be as far away from this shit as possible. But I fear all our bases are compromised, either to the government or rivals.”

“Grandpa’s summer house is still there.”

Their grandfather had been an old-school gangster, albeit a sorcerer, one of those cantankerous elders close to the top of his yakuza family. Though he had been dead for many years, his summer house still stood. Jiro was sure it hadn’t decayed — one of the many aunts probably maintained it. Plus, Sojo had been there, albeit a long time ago.

“It’s still standing?”

“Where would it go?” Ichiro laughed.

“Good… excellent place. But first,” Sojo’s voice turned strict, “we visit Sakuragi.”

Long ago, Sakuragi Chiyoko had been one of the many girls sold to a brothel by her parents. Then the war happened, and an explosion ruined her beauty, taking an eye and an arm. But Sakuragi was a cunning bitch, surviving like a rat: she not only recovered but took over her former owner’s business and eventually became a well-known underground information dealer. Sojo and she had strange relations: Jiro was sure they’d slept together, while Ichiro claimed Sakuragi had told him that memories of Sojo as a kid ruined any desire to even flirt with him. Sojo’s looks back then weren’t striking, but he was memorable. Still, some sort of fling clearly existed — office romance? Or whatever you call it now… friendship?

They arrived at the back gates of New Yoshiwara. Jiro told the guard they were here for Mrs. Sakuragi; usually, her visitors didn’t want to show themselves to the civilians here for entertainment. The boss looked like one wild night would finish him off. They walked slowly, strangely enough. Usually, the boss ran ahead of everyone, but now he barely dragged himself along. What could they do? It was a miracle he survived.

“Why are we visiting her, by the way?” Ichiro asked. Sojo awarded him with a look.

“Business matters.”

“I thought our business collapsed.”

“It did. But I have something to give her out of kindness.”

“Kindness? You have a fever again? Should we head back?”

Sojo rolled his eyes and shoved the laughing Jiro aside.

Finally, they reached the house, tucked away from the main hub of New Yoshiwara, a corner where guests weren’t allowed. Once, the armourer lived here — they had supplied him with swords during the war. As Jiro scanned the rebuilt area for any trace of the past, Sojo rapped his fist on the door. A young girl, barely wearing makeup, opened it. Seeing the trio, she raised an eyebrow skeptically, and Sojo purred, in that mix of gentle threat he mastered:

“Sweetheart, call Sakuragi-san.”

“Don’t remember seeing you among the clients,” she said, but shrugged and called back indifferently: “Ma’am! Some guests are here! They say it’s for you!” muffled mumbling came from inside, and the girl turned toward them. “No appointment? Yeah, they said no appointment!”

Sakuragi hated uninvited visitors, but she treated Sojo kindly — likely because they’d known each other for twenty years. She emerged slowly: older, more imposing, prideful… in a luxurious silk kimono with a cape, hair up. She walked out to them unhurriedly; she was, of course, different from her younger self — she’d gained a certain air of stature, something proud and self-assured… She never hid her flaws and even took pride in them. Seeing her eye patch, Jiro whispered a brilliant joke to Sojo:

“You two match perfectly now. No eye, no arm!”

“I’ll kill you,” Sojo replied with a smile. “Shut that stinky mouth of yours.”

“Come on, it’s true!”

Fortunately, no violence occurred. Seeing them, Sakuragi’s eyes widened, and she dashed to them, exclaiming — Genichi — and hugged him tightly, pressing her nose to his head as he mumbled in protest. A cute scene, aw-aw-aw. Jiro and Ichiro exchanged a meaningful glance but wisely kept their commentary to themselves.

“Delivered your precious cargo, eh?”

Of course, Sakuragi wasn’t listening.

“Everyone said you were dead… I hoped it wouldn’t happen, believed you’d pull through,” her fingers caressed Sojo’s face, and he made an exquisitely pained expression as she studied him. “Come inside, it’s not good to stay at the entrance,” she ushered them into the house, sending the girl to prepare tea. “God, Genichi, I’m so glad you survived.”

Her living room was luxurious, but today, this room was used as a lounge. Usually, Sojo sat apart, proud as hell, but today he clearly didn’t care, letting Sakuragi pull him close. All Jiro could do was roll his eyes. At least Sakuragi was always honest with her feelings, she thought she’d lost a good friend and partner, and Sojo simply seized the moment — the son of a bitch! But Jiro was delighted, not judgmental.

The girl who opened the door realized something interesting was happening and poured tea slowly, hoping for a story. Sakuragi, however, held Sojo by the shoulders, keeping him close, and it was starting to get awkward.

“What happened to you?.. You look terrible.”

“He didn’t look great even before this,” Ichiro laughed, and Sojo shot him a deadly glare.

“Oh, just… let’s say there was a bombastic reason.”

“Rokuhira Kunishige’s kid cut him up,” Jiro snorted, and Sakuragi’s face darkened.

“Goldfish?”

“Yeah-yeah, that’s the guy.”

“Oh, the rumors already reached here?”

“He started up troubles in the Kaminabi… and what he did at the Rakuzaichi auction really shook things up in the underground,” Sakuragi said, glancing at Sojo, who was buried in her collar, clearly enjoying it. Bastard, he was clearly taking advantage! Jiro was ready to swear he was smiling right now. Damn fox! “I thought you were his fan. Rokuhira Kunishige, I mean. How did you manage to piss the boy off?”

“I told him I adore his father with all my heart.”

If Sojo really said that, it was hilarious. Too bad Jiro didn’t see Rokuhira’s face at that moment! But Sakuragi frowned.

“You’re not telling everything.”

“We-ell… and that swords are weapons for killing. And he started preaching his idea, like it was all for saving… bullshit,” Sojo thought a moment, then sighed dramatically. “Okay, maybe some of it is true. But it’s still a weapon for killing. Right?”

He looked at her as if he weren’t entirely sure, and Jiro thought — weird. Sojo had always followed his beliefs to the end, all his life. And now some brat convinced him otherwise? Yes, the kid was Rokuhira Kunishige’s son, but still…

“Shouldn’t you know?”

“I’m just thinking…” he didn’t finish the thought, groaned, and buried his face in her neck again. “Damn. Imagine living your whole life by one set of beliefs, and then some little brat comes along and shatters them all. Twenty years down the drain! I’m angry, just… insanely angry.”

“At the boy?”

Jiro expected Sojo to say, yeah, the brat pissed me off. But when the boss paused, he felt uneasy. He’d never doubted before.

“… I don’t know. At the circumstances. And at Yura. But it doesn’t matter,” he quickly put on a businesslike air, as if the conversation never happened. “I came to give you something because I’m quitting the business. Better it goes to you than to hungry competitors.”

“Why such generosity?”

Sakuragi instantly smelled a trap, but Sojo made the most sincere face in the world, angelic, not the bloodthirsty bastard he was.

“I just love you very-very-very much.”

“He’s plotting something, isn’t he?” she glanced at the twins, and they grinned.

“This moron is trying to please you.”

“You nuts, dogs?” Sojo glowered at Sakuragi, then charmingly fluttered his lashes. “It pains me that some jerk might take my business. You, at least, are my friend, so if you grab part of my operation, it won’t hurt as much.”

“No, you’re definitely plotting something.”

The conversation then turned more joking; Sojo explained where to find certain documents, which clients were worth poaching if needed — typical boring chatter between two businesspeople, which Jiro found utterly uninteresting. They spent the afternoon like that: not that fun, since the boss couldn’t drink, and no one else drank out of solidarity. Annoying Sakuragi, however, was incredibly entertaining, but it was time to be polite, and Sojo rose to his feet. Jiro draped a jacket over his shoulders.

“Good luck ripping the throats out of my competitors. I’m heading to the middle of nowhere.”

“Why?” Sakuragi asked with a smile.

“Obviously, to hide!”

“It's too late today. It gets dark fast,” she glanced toward the corridor, where sunlight had streamed in earlier. Now, only the lamps provided light. “Sleep here, and tomorrow you’ll head out. Things will fall into place by morning. Don’t rush. You’re out of the game anyway.”

Sojo said nothing. His usually readable gaze was now impossible to decipher. What was he thinking about this offer? Or was it the last words that mattered? Jiro decided it had gone on long enough and whispered loudly:

“Well, if you fuck, be careful — the boss’s heart’s still weak…”

Sakuragi’s expression softened, though she didn’t laugh out loud. Sojo spun around and kicked Jiro full force.

“You’re such a pain in the ass, you stupid fuck. I will shove those jokes of yours in your goddamn butt.”

“Oh, really? Really?”

“Ichiro, shut this idiot up.”

“It doesn’t work that way!” Jiro protested, but Ichiro grabbed his brother by the elbow and laughed toothily.

“Alright, ciao. We’ll sleep on the couch in the next room. Just don’t make noise.”

“You push your luck,” Sakuragi warned him.

The girl who had brought the tea spread things out for them in the guest room. No, the idea of not leaving in the night was wise, especially in the dark and the slush, so the suggestion worked in their favor. Jiro settled comfortably in his spot and closed his eyes, trying to sleep. Ichiro, on the other hand, passed out quickly — maybe because he had been mainly driving; Jiro lay there for a while and then realized he wasn’t actually that tired. Not wanting to waste time, he headed to the kitchen for a sip of water, but on the way, he heard quiet voices coming from upstairs, from where the master’s rooms were. Mostly Sakuragi, though Sojo’s raspy baritone also carried. What were they talking about…? Hesitating, Jiro decided he had nothing to lose and stepped outside, first smoking, then in a single leap, climbing onto the roof.

The alarm didn’t start ringing — he was one of the friends for Sakuragi’s sorcery barrier.

Light burned in the second-floor room that opened onto the wide balcony. Since the door was open, the voices came through more clearly. Sliding down carefully, Jiro positioned himself under the window and propped his head on his hand. If he couldn’t sleep, at least these two could entertain him with their chatter. He could also see if the rumored romance was real.

“Poor thing. That boy hurt you that badly?”

From the conversation, it sounded like Sakuragi was changing his bandages. Sojo clicked his tongue irritably.

“Nah, just cut across the chest. This one is from the Kamunabi squad that came for me. The rest’s from the datenseki.”

“I told you, it’s dangerous research.”

“So what? If you chicken out, you get nothing. At least I tried. Unforgettable, damn it, experience. The funniest part is probably that if the lab hadn’t blown up, I wouldn’t even have died. Datenseki really did become less toxic.”

“It’s hard to support you in research where you cut up a little girl.”

“Oh, look at you, didn't know you love morality and other shit so much.”

“You know what I mean.”

A brief silence fell. Then Sojo sighed heavily.

“Okay. I know.”

“So you know why I can't fully support you.”

“What difference does it make? She’s immortal anyway.”

“Genichi, we’re talking about a child.”

“I really don’t get what your problem is.”

When he let out a short grunt, Jiro easily imagined Sakuragi tightening the bandages.

“The problem, Genichi, is that it’s a child. Okay, fine, I get it — you’re impossible to convince. Something in your head broke at a fundamental level back then. Or maybe you’re just an idiot trying to look smart. Maybe both. But it’s karma, you hear?”

“Karma is for idiots who believe in the sixth moon on Saturn, or whatever you say…” he groaned again, but not as much. So he got kicked. “That’s nonsense.”

“Maybe. But there are reasons many sorcerers base their divinations on the stars. So I’ll believe it was karma. And you… Once you get somewhere safe, start an honest life. Go to a temple, pray. At least ask forgiveness for the pain caused to the girl.”

“The gods didn’t hear me back then, they won’t care now. And the girl… even less.”

“Try to do it sincerely.”

Silence fell again, punctuated only by the rustle of fabric. Not sex, definitely not… Damn, he sounded like a professional pervert! Jiro decided to risk a peek from below; luckily, the owner of the room was too absorbed in her guest. She sat on the spread bed in loungewear, hair loose, and next to her, Sojo looked like a scrawny cat. His hair had grown out, curling slightly, which always annoyed him. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and Sakuragi’s own cape draped over his shoulders. He leaned sideways against her, resting his head on her shoulder, and Sakuragi, eyes closed, stroked his hair.

“You should get a haircut,” she said thoughtfully. “Your hair is too long.”

“The right side got cut. Now I’ve got a shaved temple, huh? So stylish,” Sojo snorted. “Like my two idiots.”

Jiro rolled his eyes. What a fucker.

“I don’t remember you with short hair at all.”

“I had them once! When we were little, after the war. They shaved us all because of the insects. I was so mad. You can’t imagine!”

“Oh, no, knowing you, I can imagine perfectly.”

Sakuragi’s fingers touched the right side of his head; though the hair had been shaved, it was slowly growing back, hidden under thick bandages. Noriko-san had said there would be a scar. It was hard to picture Sojo with half his face burned and missing an eye, but people got used to everything fast. Damn. He should leave. Otherwise, he’d be a real pervert, spying… But Jiro rarely saw Sojo like this; even when near him, he was genuine, and curiosity, as it is known, killed a cat. He had seen Sojo like this only once. A long time ago…

The boss suddenly opened his eyes and sharply turned them toward Sakuragi, who kept stroking his hair.

“You think I screwed up?”

“Maybe. But I think you bit off more pie than you could chew.”

“The whole underground must be laughing their asses off.”

“Since when do you care about their opinion?”

“I don’t,” Sojo shrugged. “But still, it sucks. Such a fuck-up… and a stupid one. You know? How the kid beat me. Caught me on the same attack. Timed it perfectly, then chopped me in half. Broke the enchanted sword!” his voice almost rose to a shout, then faded. “I’m just… speechless. One of the relics of the war, just broken like that… And it’s not because he’s that strong. Not because he has some amazing sword. It means that little bastard is stronger than me. Some brat!…”

“Your pride took a hit, I got it,” she laughed softly, and Sojo’s face crumpled.

“You have no idea!”

“You won’t go after him, right? For revenge.”

“No, of course not, I’m not that much of an idiot.”

“Good,” Sakuragi said dryly, then nodded at the bed. “Alright, wrap it up. It’s late, and I have work tomorrow. And your boys, they’ll have to drive. They’ll miss sleep if you don’t stop whining in the back seat. Plus, proper sleep heals. It’ll do you good now.”

Sojo pouted again, but lay down, and Sakuragi snuggled close, covering them both with a blanket.

“Oh, come on, still childish time!”

“Shh.”

Damn… Ichiro had been right. There was no fling! Jiro was almost disappointed. He just squinted when Sakuragi turned off the light, then, in the half-dark, lay beside Sojo and hugged him. And the boss allowed it… Some weird brother-sister relationship thing they got there. Not interesting at all. He sighed to himself, then turned to go downstairs, but then heard softly:

“I’m really glad you didn’t die.”

He hurried back to the guest room.

But even in the morning, they didn’t leave right away. Sakuragi had asked them to slow down.

They were back in the guest room, where they spread newspapers on the floor. Sojo sat in the center with a face as if he were about to take monastic vows. The drama was through the roof — laughable to the point of tears — but Jiro stayed silent like he was mute, afraid that even the tiniest chuckle would make the boss bolt, even though everything was already prepared and the sheet was draped over his shoulders. He generally didn’t like breaking from his usual patterns, rarely changed habits, clinging to this twisted certainty that if he chose a path, he would go to the end.

Sakuragi stood nearby, critically examining him as if sizing him up, then reached for the scissors. She ran a finger across Sojo’s face, then lifted his head by the chin.

“So… short, right? Are you really sure?”

“Do it,” Sojo closed his eyes and sighed, looking as if suffering. “I’ve got nothing left to lose.”

“Don’t complain afterward.”

The haircut didn’t take as long as Jiro had expected. With scissors, Sakuragi trimmed the hair around the burn, and with clippers, cut the rest. The tea girl helped; it would have been hard to do all that with one hand. It was probably tough to say goodbye to such a mane, but better this than looking like a mangy cat. When Sakuragi finished, she blew the cut hair off his shoulders with a hairdryer, tilted the boss’s head like a pro, and then smiled.

“It suits you. You even look younger.”

“Great, now she says I’m old. Nothing but insults! Hey,” he said to Jiro, “should I be offended?”

“Darlings, you handle that yourselves, okay?”

In the end, before them was the “new” boss… Well, not entirely new. As Jiro had heard from Sojo the night before, yes, there had been a time when his hair was short, and he remembered that period. That was almost ten years ago, maybe more. But he really did look younger — maybe because his face was quite youthful for thirty, and without the hair covering it, something could finally be seen. Not that it didn’t suit him… but it was unusual! And his neck was more exposed. He used to be in good form; now, the boss looked more like a slightly dying skeleton.

Jiro draped a jacket over his shoulders, and Sojo turned to Sakuragi. They looked at each other, fell silent, and then he awkwardly, as if unsure how to say goodbye, nodded:

“Well… goodbye. Maybe we’ll see each other.”

Sakuragi said nothing, just exhaled cigarette smoke, and that was the end of the farewell, though her gaze was sad, as if she really didn’t want to let him go. Maybe there really had been a fling. Or maybe they were close in some way Jiro couldn’t understand.

He took the boss under his arm and escorted him to the car, then climbed into the front seat next to his brother. Ichiro cracked his neck loudly, already anticipating several hours on the road. Lucky if they didn’t get stuck in some traffic jam! It would have been faster by train, but dragging the boss to the station in his condition would be stupid. He turned on the heater, and the car warmed up. Behind him, the boss got comfortable in his seat, clearly ready to fall asleep again.

“Hope grandpa’s house has a working stove,” Ichiro grumbled, and, gods, how much Jiro agreed with him.

Chapter Text

When Grandfather and Sojo met for the first time, they immediately disliked each other.

That’s putting it mildly. Grandfather had kicked him right off the porch, even though the twins had warned him ahead of time that a new friend was coming over — a stray kid they had met before. For some reason, Grandfather had been fine with that before, but the moment he saw Sojo, he started growling that the boy would probably steal something. Narumi had to step in — he had that natural charm all bookworms seemed to possess — and somehow convinced the old man that Sojo was a good kid and not about to rob him blind. Still, Jiro was sure Grandpa had been right — Sojo had probably wanted to steal something — but now, out of sheer stubbornness, wouldn’t. The two just exchanged furious glares and then retreated to opposite corners. Which was just as well, because if Grandfather started an argument with their friend, it would’ve been a disaster.

But truthfully, the twins hadn’t invited the two over so Sojo could steal something. Narumi had mentioned earlier that he could do something, something they absolutely had to see for themselves! In exchange, they’d promised to feed them — and of course, those two street rats agreed in a heartbeat. Maybe that’s why Grandfather had let strange kids into his home for the day — out of pity… at least until he met Sojo. Even then, he didn’t turn them away or withhold food, though it wasn’t like they lived in luxury either. But Grandfather had a small garden, so they were better off than the city kids, for whom even a thin potato stew was a godsend.

They arrived early in the morning. Narumi looked delighted — thrilled, even — that someone cared about what he could do. Sojo, as usual, looked unimpressed, though this time he was more beaten up than usual. When they asked what happened, he just shook his head irritably, and his perpetual sidekick Narumi explained:

“Tsuneki got mad.”

“That’s the leader of your gang?” Jiro frowned. “Genichi, if you keep putting up with him, he’ll never leave you alone.”

“He’ll get bored someday,” Sojo muttered, then nodded toward the yard behind the house. “So? We're setting up here? Your grumpy old man gave permission?”

Jiro wanted to argue that Grandfather wasn’t that bad, but then he realized that, from Sojo’s point of view, the old man probably did seem like a piece of work. So he just nodded and led them outside. The four of them gathered around a wooden crate filled with supplies that had been sitting there for a while — the summer house was also used as a storage shed for Grandfather’s small-time syndicate. Narumi, the self-proclaimed expert, stretched his hands out dramatically and cracked his knuckles. He clearly couldn’t wait to show off.

“First of all, we need to make sure nothing got damp…”

They were going to make fireworks.

Turned out Narumi knew his stuff — he could make little contraptions that exploded in brilliant colors and loud pops. They decided not to mess with his second talent — something much more dangerous during wartime — and settled for making simple sparklers instead. Pretty, harmless, and safe enough that only passersby might catch a glimpse of them. How Narumi had picked up this skill was anyone’s guess. Flustered by the sudden attention, he started rambling excitedly:

“Oh, I loved chemistry in school! We used to run experiments all the time, and our teacher showed us so much! It’s all thanks to him, I know this stuff!”

“Man, our chemistry teacher was boring as hell,” the twins groaned in unison. “How do we get yours instead?”

“Uh… I’m afraid that’s kind of impossible…”

“He’s dead,” Sojo cut in flatly, then lifted his gloomy gaze to the twins. “But Narumi’s alive, so we’ll still see the show.”

“Yo, Narumi, show us what you got!”

“Yeah, come on, Narumi!”

“Na-ru-mi! Na-ru-mi!”

The brothers started circling him like a pair of chanting fanboys, and Narumi turned scarlet, laughing awkwardly.

Watching him was actually fascinating. When he wasn’t parroting Sojo or spouting random facts like a little know-it-all, he became someone else entirely — focused, confident, and even a little cool. His fingers moved quickly and precisely as he explained each step, and the three of them followed along. Jiro caught himself thinking that maybe Narumi could have survived on his own if he’d always been like this. But he was just too decent for that world.

While they worked, Ichiro suddenly gasped.

“Oh! I just remembered something!” he said, elbowing Jiro. “We were wandering around the other day and overheard two soldiers talking! Remember, Jiro? That crazy story?”

Jiro nodded eagerly.

“They said there’s an abandoned castle somewhere in the forests of Chiba! Can you believe it? The owner fled during the war and left it behind. A whole castle!”

“Like a daimyo’s?” Narumi asked, eyes wide, and Ichiro nodded vigorously.

“Yeah! A massive one, with an inner courtyard! The soldiers were thinking of turning it into a base for a while. We’ve gotta go check it out someday!”

“That’s dangerous…” Narumi murmured nervously, and Jiro snorted.

“After the war, obviously.”

The enchanted swords were already pushing the enemy back to their own island. Everyone could taste victory in the air. And though the fighting still raged, even the capital wasn’t safe yet, everyone knew — Rokuhira Kunishige’s six swordmasters would bring peace to their nation. Jiro didn’t want to go back to school, but he missed the sweets that had vanished from the stores. He was looking forward to the end of the war — to Sunday superhero shows instead of Grandfather’s boring radio reports about the front. At eleven, those things felt like an eternity away.

Sojo said nothing through all this, but Narumi suddenly froze mid-motion, staring at the twins with wide, tearful eyes — like he might cry right then and there. Oh god, he’s so sensitive…

“You really… want to hang out with us again?!”

“What kind of question is that?” Ichiro waved him off. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t have said that stuff!”

“Really?!”

“Genichi, tell him.”

“You tell him,” Sojo grumbled, though he was clearly pleased too.

When Narumi actually started sniffling with joy, things got a bit awkward.

“I’m just… so happy!” he blurted, rubbing his eyes with both hands. “No one’s ever said that to me before! Thank you, guys! I’m so happy we’re friends!”

Then his words turned into incoherent babbling, and Sojo had to translate for him:

“Too much happy.”

Later, they took a break for lunch. The potato stew made Jiro a bit sick of life, but he didn’t complain. He just watched as their guests devoured it like starving puppies. What was boring old soup to them was a feast, pure joy. Both Narumi and Sojo were tiny and bony, and it wasn’t surprising; it was hard for kids with no adults looking out for them to survive the war. By evening, they were getting ready for the show. Jiro lounged on the porch, watching his brother run around under Narumi’s bossy direction. Sojo sat next to him, chewing on a crust of bread — obviously stolen from the kitchen, but Jiro wasn’t about to rat him out.

“How long did it take you to become a sorcerer?”

The question caught him off guard. Jiro glanced at Sojo, who was still chewing.

“Dunno. I kinda could since I was born. Grandpa taught me a bit. Why?”

“I wanna learn.”

“I could ask Grandpa to teach you.”

“Don’t do it,” Sojo muttered, frowning, and Jiro burst out laughing, earning a barefoot kick to the ribs. “Cut it out!”

“Genichi, you’re hilarious! What, embarrassed that much?”

“Shut up!”

They started chasing each other around the yard, and Jiro thought — why not? He’d get to be the senior in something for once, even if Sojo was technically older. Amazing. The thought made him grin so wide he didn’t even notice when Sojo tripped him. Jiro yelped, fell onto the grass, and Sojo immediately pounced, sitting on top of him to keep him down. Ichiro and Narumi watched their scuffle without much enthusiasm.

And then — the sparklers lit up.

Jiro had only ever seen them at festivals before, surrounded by thousands of other lights, but here, in the quiet dark, they were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He grabbed one and started running around with his brother, while Narumi and Sojo just lit a few and watched. For the first time in ages, Sojo’s gloomy face actually softened into a real smile. A miracle, Jiro thought — and all thanks to a bunch of sparklers. Grandfather sat on the porch, watching them with a faint smirk. And Jiro thought — what a perfect evening.

Fortunately, the heater worked, and the house itself looked decent enough; the brothers had guessed right that one of their aunts must’ve dropped by recently to tidy things up.

Sure, it wasn’t as warm as they would’ve liked, but Grandfather had set up this little house not just for summer, despite the name. It was a safe place to hide, and that time had clearly come. Ichiro was the first to rush inside, ready to get everything hooked up to power, while Jiro turned around in the car to glance at the back seat where the boss sat. He wasn’t asleep anymore; Jiro could tell from the twitch under his closed eyelid. Still, Sojo didn’t try to start a conversation, staying wrapped in his jacket. Yeah, some rest would do him good. Thank god he wasn’t about to charge off to get revenge on Rokuhira — knowing this idiot, it was entirely possible.

Feeling the weight of Jiro’s stare, Sojo reluctantly cracked open his one good eye.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like shit,” the boss didn’t bother sugarcoating it. “What kind of answer were you expecting?”

“I meant specifics. Anything hurts?”

“And what are you gonna do about it? Magically cure me? Knock me out so I just black out for a while?”

The irritation in his voice faded into tiredness, but Jiro still smiled.

“How’d you guess I was thinking about punching you right in your smartass's head?”

“Because we’ve got the same shitty sense of humor, the two of us,” they both sighed miserably at that. “Anyway, I’ll have to tough it out till it heals. Whatever. It’s fine. I mean, not fine, but at least I’m not dead, and my brain and legs still work… that’s a hell of an achievement.”

Jiro couldn’t agree with that. He climbed from the front seat to the back, nudged Sojo over, and stared right into his face again. The boss didn’t like it but didn’t bother resisting — probably didn’t have the strength for that yet. In the end, he just gave up and leaned against Jiro’s shoulder. Jiro patted his back. The wounds had already started healing, and besides, that first time years ago, the nerves in that area had stopped working properly anyway. They could’ve had a heart-to-heart, but Sojo clearly wasn’t in the mood, and Jiro didn’t feel like pushing him. Instead, he whispered that while Ichiro was tinkering with things, Sojo might as well get some sleep — just like Sakuragi said, sleep was the best medicine. Sojo nodded at first, then suddenly froze and glared at Jiro suspiciously.

“Hold on a damn second. When the hell did she say that to you?!”

Oh, shit!

He was saved from utter humiliation only by Ichiro waving from the doorway, signaling that everything was ready.

Inside, it was warmer than expected. His brother had already managed to heat one of the rooms and promised to take care of the others later. While Ichiro handled the setup, Jiro decided to take on the cooking. He was a so-so cook — mostly good at the standard bachelor menu — but he had to try, since the boss now had a strict diet. What was he, a restaurant chef or something? Still, not much choice. The three of them sat down at the table, folded their hands, and started eating. Sojo’s left hand still couldn’t hold the spoon properly, but the stubborn bastard refused any help.

“So, what’s the plan now?”

“For now? Nothing,” the boss stirred his soup, then took a sip. “At least not for me. I need to heal first. I feel like shit. But if I were you, I wouldn’t draw much attention either. We’ve got enough money for a while. How many stashes did you clean out?”

“About a million yen total.”

“Enough for starters, as long as we don’t splurge too much. Tell your aunt not to come here anymore; we’ll take care of the house ourselves.”

“We’ll have to fix the roof,” Ichiro said gloomily. “And the plumbing.”

“And stock up on food. And I’ve got to get back in shape,” Sojo flexed his hand, giving it a critical look. “Shit, all that work down the drain.”

“I heard girls like skinny dying young men.”

“How about you both shut the hell up,” he growled, shaking his fist at them as the twins burst out laughing.

After lunch, Jiro and Ichiro started cleaning up around the house. It was mostly tidy already, thanks to the aunt, but they still had to check everything. Unfortunately, they’d be living here for a while. Hopefully, they wouldn’t go insane from boredom. Jiro figured he should look for some kind of work in the nearby village — manual labor, maybe, anything really. It’d be suspicious if they just stayed holed up here, going out only for groceries. Oh no, a horrifying thought struck him: was he really thinking about planting a garden in the summer? Was this what getting old felt like? He wasn’t even thirty yet!

There were two bedrooms in the house — the grandfather’s and the twins’ old one. Eventually, they’d split up, no reason to all sleep in one place, but in winter, it made sense to share one room. Less room to heat, and it’d be easier to keep an eye on the boss in case he got worse. His condition didn’t inspire much hope. The fact that he’d even survived was a miracle. What if he suddenly died again? So that night, they decided to all sleep together in the grandfather’s room — it was warmer there since the old man had grown frail toward the end. They laid out three mattresses side by side, like they were at a sleepover. The boss took the middle spot, of course, and couldn’t help commenting:

“You’ve trapped me, you bastards. What if you crush me in your sleep? I’m fragile now, I’ll die!”

“Easier to keep you warm, you bag of bones,” Ichiro jabbed his bony shoulder accusingly. “What, you want your own bed? You’re not our boss anymore — you said yourself the business is over. That makes you a pal now, not the boss.”

“Don’t poke me.”

“I’ll poke if I want!”

“Don’t poke!”

“Genichi, you’re such a pain in the ass.”

Then Jiro suddenly said:

“Just like when we were kids, huh?”

And all three of them went silent.

That was how they used to sleep as children — huddled together after… certain things had happened. It’d been so long ago. As soon as Jiro said it, the bickering stopped. Sojo quit grumbling, just sighed, and scooted closer. Jiro put an arm around his back. Ichiro leaned in from the other side. Yeah. Just like back then. Only now they weren’t kids anymore — they were adults who’d seen too much shit in their lives. So much time had passed… And here they were again, in the same house. Again, after… everything.

“Alright,” Jiro finally muttered. “Let’s sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

But sleep wouldn’t come, even though his brother and Sojo were already dozing beside him. Jiro lay there, staring into the dark ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of nature outside.

Away from the city, it was always so quiet. Somewhere, a bird slipped from a branch; snow fell. Only their breathing could be heard. Sojo was asleep beside him — alive. Even lively, in a way. No longer a hollow ghost of himself, but a dim spark that might flare bright again. Not the terrifying wreck they’d pulled from the ruins of the exploded castle. They’d been working together for so many years now… And it all could’ve ended in a minute. He decided not to think about that anymore. What did it matter? It hadn’t happened. The important thing was that Sojo was alive. And the rest… would work itself out.

They said that Something had happened dozens of kilometers north of here.

It was almost the end of the war.

Grandfather never talked about it; he didn’t like sharing such details with his grandchildren at all, which annoyed Jiro, who was terribly curious. But this was one of those things even adults whispered about, afraid to say aloud — which meant it was something very serious. Jiro couldn’t quite grasp what exactly had happened; he only heard fragments — something about Rokuhira, something about swords… Another enchanted sword again? He and his brother tried to eavesdrop, but they never figured anything out, and when Grandfather caught them, he chased them away. For several days, they lived in ignorance, wondering what could have caused such rumors, coming up with the dumbest theories — and then, one day, a soldier appeared at their doorstep.

He looked like he’d been through hell, yet he was young; obviously a sorcerer, since strange black markings circled his eyes, like someone had painted dots on his face. The soldier smiled awkwardly at him and Ichiro, then went to talk to their grandfather. They spoke for a long time — until Grandfather suddenly exploded, shouting:

“You bastards have lost your damn minds! I’m not giving in that easily!”

They argued more, and finally, the soldier left. Grandfather stayed grim and silent all evening, not saying a word, even at dinner.

The soldier came back several times. Each visit ended with Grandfather yelling again, but each time the shouting grew quieter — as if the guest was managing to persuade the old man bit by bit. Jiro’s curiosity burned him alive, but there was nothing he could do — the old man was a stubborn bastard who never shared a thing. So he and his brother could only stew in their frustration. They distracted themselves with war news and the propaganda films shown at the local shop, where all the villagers gathered — mostly women, the elderly, and children — listening in rapture to the clear, confident voice of the announcer who told of their army’s glorious victories and the enemy’s retreat, all thanks to Rokuhira Kunishige’s sixth blade, named the Shinuchi, so powerful it alone turned battles.

But they quickly forgot about that mystery, because about a week later — during the soldier’s last visit — another guest appeared.

Jiro knew well that Sojo couldn’t stand Grandfather, and Grandfather felt the same toward him. It had been that way since the day they met. Because of that, they rarely crossed paths, and Sojo always turned down invitations to come over — even just to share a meal — though the orphans were clearly starving. One more mouth wouldn’t have ruined them, and the three boys had already become friends. But Sojo always had his principles — idiotic, rigid principles for someone who was only a year older but looked two years younger. He could’ve had it easier, but he just had to be stubborn about everything. Those principles would choke him one day, Jiro thought.

So when Ichiro spotted Sojo on the road in the distance, Jiro was genuinely surprised. What was he doing here? What about all those damn principles?

They stepped onto the path to wait for him (and for an explanation), but Sojo didn’t hurry toward them. Something was wrong. The closer he came, the clearer it became. Usually, he radiated his trademark cocky confidence — because he was, frankly, an asshole — but this time there was nothing of the sort. He was shaking, his already pale face now chalk-white. He was filthy, covered in brown stains, one hand pressed to his face. His fingers were black with dirt. When he finally reached them, he stumbled and then collapsed. He didn’t get up.

Jiro and Ichiro exchanged a glance. Something was definitely wrong. They rushed to him, and that’s when Ichiro saw it — strange, uneven bulges beneath the skin on his back, like…

“Genichi!”

“You hate Grandfather,” Jiro muttered in confusion. “And you still came?”

“Feel. So. Bad,” Sojo gurgled, and closed his eyes.

That was all he managed to say.

His grudge against Grandfather had always been stupid and false because when they carried Sojo inside on their backs, Grandfather didn’t rage like they’d feared. He panicked instead, completely forgetting about the soldier. The soldier, on the other hand, went pale the moment he saw Sojo.

“This kid…” he said, then turned to Grandfather and hissed, “This is exactly what I was talking about. The traces of that thing! And this was just a small cleansing! Please, you need to go somewhere safe. If you keep being stubborn—”

“Shut your mouth and get me a doctor from the village!” Grandfather barked.

The soldier flinched and bolted.

The village medic arrived within minutes.

Grandfather didn’t have time for his grandsons, so he barely noticed them. Of course, they were kicked out of the room, but they still peeked through a crack in the door — watching as Sojo was given a tightly rolled cloth to bite down on, laid face-down, and then… they began to cut into his back alive. That was the first and only time Jiro ever saw him cry. Sojo had never shed a tear before, not even when he’d been beaten bloody, but now he whimpered helplessly, unable to stop. That’s how much it hurt. Jiro flinched when, from one of the swollen lumps, the doctor pulled something out — something that looked like a withered flower — and as it came free, thin, root-like tendrils tore away from the flesh…

Jiro bolted for the veranda. Ichiro followed.

They sat there for hours until Grandfather finally came out. He didn’t say anything, just sat beside them and lit a cigarette — the smell of his heavy tobacco instantly filling the air. Jiro scooted closer, and Grandfather placed a rough hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. None of them spoke. They sat like that for a while, until the black sky filled with stars and the moon rose. It was beautiful. Since the war began, there’d been almost no light in the city, so the stars were perfectly clear. Only then did Grandfather speak:

“Don’t bother him too much.”

The summer house wasn’t big, so it wasn’t surprising that their guest was sent to their room. Besides, they were friends.

When Jiro and Ichiro went inside, they saw bedding laid out on the floor, and in the center, Sojo was lying on his stomach. It looked like he was asleep. The blanket was pulled down to his waist, his entire back swathed in bandages already stained brown. He didn’t react when they came closer. Eventually, Ichiro lay down on his right, Jiro on his left. In whispers, they confirmed he was deeply unconscious. For a while, Jiro just watched him — the shallow, raspy breathing, the sweaty, pale face. Today he’d seen a side of Sojo that the boy clearly never wanted anyone to see — and it was probably his greatest, most terrifying secret: that he, too, was human. Jiro decided to keep that memory buried deep inside himself, a reminder that even this wild dog had something human within him. Then he took Sojo’s fingers, unexpectedly cold, shifted a little closer, and closed his eyes.

He lay unconscious for several days, and when he did wake, he rambled deliriously, whimpering in pain, while Grandfather and the village doctor busied themselves around him, trying to do something. It was strange. Grandfather had never cared for other children — he’d even treated his own grandsons harshly — and yet now he was fussing over some boy he barely knew. Jiro didn’t understand it, but he didn’t care. He could accept it, because all he wanted was for his friend to get better. He waited for Sojo to wake up and tell them what he had seen because he had seen something incredible, something the adults whispered about.

And on the third day, Sojo finally opened his eyes.

It happened during the day, while the twins were outside doing their own things — mostly searching for Sojo’s group, since they were sure that Narumi guy must be worried sick. He was exactly the type to care too much about everyone. So the twins didn’t find out until evening. They burst into the room like a whirlwind and surrounded Sojo; he hadn’t moved since morning, but this time he glared at them, though not for long because they lay down beside him and started chattering like hungry seagulls:

“Whoa! We thought you were gonna die!”

“You scared the hell out of us!”

“Even Grandpa was worried!”

“You should’ve seen how much he fussed over you!”

“And us too!”

“Hey, what, you decided to have adventures without us?”

They talked so much that he couldn’t get a single word in. By the end of it, even Sojo’s usual vicious attitude cracked. He gave a weak laugh, asked for water, and somehow managed to sit up. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and Jiro suddenly felt awkward — he and his brother looked fine, healthy, while Sojo looked like he was starving. You could count every rib. When he finished drinking, he let the cup rest on his knees, unable to hold it steady, and looked at the twins wearily. But there was something in his eyes — something Jiro hadn’t seen before. A strange gleam. Sojo had always been a bit of a lunatic, but now… something in him had changed.

“Did it hurt?” Ichiro asked quietly.

Sojo blinked, distracted from whatever thoughts had gripped him.

“Huh? Yeah.”

“They cut your back open while you were awake!” Ichiro whispered.

Sojo frowned, confused.

“Really? …I don’t remember.”

Jiro remembered the tears and cleared his throat. Maybe they shouldn’t have brought that up.

“Well, maybe that’s for the best. You don’t remember, and that’s good. And good thing you came here, too! Who knows what would’ve happened otherwise? Was it hard? Getting here?”

When Sojo started swaying, Ichiro moved closer so he could lean on his shoulder. His gaze was still clear, but he looked awful — pale, sweaty, half-conscious. He thought for a moment, staring down at the empty cup in his lap. He gripped it tightly, then handed it back to Jiro, saying hoarsely:

“I walked for days. I think. Or maybe just one. Not sure.”

“And you made it here even though it hurt that badly? Whoa!”

“I think I blacked out a couple of times. I barely made it. You two were my only hope.”

The twins beamed at him.

“Aww, you think so highly of us?”

“Best friend ever!”

“That’s how bad it was,” Sojo muttered irritably. “I had no choice but to come to you,” he shut his eyes, and Jiro thought he’d fall asleep again, but Sojo suddenly went on: “I couldn’t stay in that place.”

“Why? Your gang’s there, right?”

“And Narumi!” Jiro added.

For a moment, Sojo’s face froze, white as wax, paler even than before. But he quickly smoothed it over, regaining his usual detached look. Still, they noticed.

“Something wrong?”

“Narumi, he…”

He didn’t finish because just then the door opened, and Grandfather entered with the village doctor. Behind them stood the same young soldier. They shooed the twins away, though not very carefully, so Jiro and Ichiro snuck behind the doorway and peeked from around the corner. The soldier stood guard at the entrance, glancing at them now and then, but didn’t stop them. Grandfather sat down beside the bed, while the doctor began his examination — asking gentle questions first, then remarking that the bandages needed changing. He worked quickly, but Jiro still caught a glimpse of Sojo’s back — faint streaks of blood, the skin covered in many cuts. This time, Sojo didn’t whimper, but flinched whenever the doctor wiped away the dried blood with a wet cloth. When he finished, the doctor pulled something out of his bag and handed it to Grandfather. Herbs, maybe? Jiro squinted to see better. He noticed Sojo sway again, and the doctor steadied him by the shoulder. Next to the man, Sojo looked small and fragile.

“Boil these herbs the same way as yesterday,” the doctor said. “They’ll ease the pain. But don’t overdo it — it’s still poison,” he looked down at Sojo. “Genichi-kun, does it hurt? If it gets too bad, don’t try to endure it.”

Sojo hesitated, then nodded. Grandfather groaned as he stood, moving toward the door — not even glancing at his grandsons, who had clearly been caught spying. When he returned, he handed a cup to Sojo. He sniffed it and made a face, as if it stank unbearably.

“Disgusting.”

“Drink it and quit whining,” Grandfather growled just like he always did at his own grandkids.

Sojo obeyed reluctantly.

When he finished, they let him lie back down. The adults started talking again — a long, dull conversation Jiro could barely follow. He and Ichiro didn’t care about the words. They just watched as, moments after drinking, Sojo drifted back to sleep. Grandfather, still arguing about something, tucked the boy in carefully and smoothed his hair. It was strange. All of it. Why was Grandfather… Jiro’s thoughts were interrupted when the soldier, who’d stayed silent all this time, cleared his throat.

“Inugami-san,” he said. Grandfather didn’t answer. The soldier went on: “This won’t stop here, you know,” still silence. The young man frowned. “You know, it’s hard for me to say this. I respect you — you helped me when I joined the family. But if you keep being stubborn, it’s not going to end well. The army’s using that kind of weapon against the enemy now, but no one’s counting the human losses. If you die suddenly, the new government will only benefit. They’ll twist it, use it against you… start mass purges to cleanse society of criminals…” his voice softened to a pleading tone.“Please. Go inland. Agree to the evacuation. If you die, there’ll be nothing left. Your family might survive, but—”

“Enough. I understand you.”

Understand what? Jiro could never figure that out. He just watched Grandfather leave the room, scowling, and the soldier lingered a moment before following.

Later that night, once the adults were gone, the twins slipped quietly inside again.

Sojo looked exhausted from all that endless talk. He didn’t stir when they crept closer. He was lying on his side, the blanket slipped off one shoulder. Jiro crouched near his face, and Sojo suddenly cracked one eye open, looking at him with a dull, feverish gaze. He looked sick and bone-tired. He didn’t even have the strength to snap at them like usual. Jiro slid closer and let Sojo lean against him.

“Cold?”

“I don’t know… I keep going from hot to freezing…”

Ichiro came up behind, lying down at his back — a clumsy, awkward attempt at a triple hug.

“Your back doesn’t hurt?”

“No,” Sojo murmured faintly. “Nothing hurts anymore.”

So the twins held that small, skinny wolf pup tight between them, trying to share what warmth they could because they were just children, and they didn’t know any other way to help. When cruelty failed, they resorted to a long-forgotten tenderness. Ichiro fell asleep first, then Sojo. He smelled faintly of bitter herbs and something else, sweet, like flowers. Only Jiro stayed awake, eyes open in the dark, listening to the quiet sound of their breathing.

They spent New Year’s Eve in silence, though Ichiro set off a few fireworks in the backyard in memory of an old friend who’d been gone for so many years. They didn't drink, but they did eat some mandarins that Jiro had gone into town to buy. The boss needed some vitamins in his system anyway.

Wrapped in several blankets on the veranda, Sojo chewed on an unlit cigarette while Ichiro ran around outside. Jiro, lazily settled beside him, shoved a mug of tea into his hand. Together, they kept watching his brother until Sojo suddenly muttered absently,

“Can you imagine? Spending New Year’s without a drink. I’ll die.”

“You’re not even supposed to smoke, and you’re asking about the booze? Want to die so hard?”

“Just a little?” Jiro shook his head, and Sojo groaned. “Unbelievable. Who would’ve thought I’d end up living such a righteous life?”

He was looking better, of course, than he had on the day they’d first arrived here. The burns had begun to heal, and most of the bandages were off. Only a few remained where the skin was still too sensitive. But the right side of his face was permanently scarred; the wound had healed, yes, but it was still there, and the missing eye made it all the more pitiful to look at.

They didn’t go to the shrine — it was too far and too cold.

When Ichiro finally launched the fireworks, Jiro lazily watched a bright streak of fire shoot into the night sky. In another time, they would have been partying and getting drunk at the temple; now, it was just the three of them left. Maybe that was for the best. Bad rumors were circulating in the underworld, and Jiro had caught wind of them by accident. He and his brother had agreed not to tell the boss — no point wasting his energy on what didn’t concern them now. Let the Kamunabi and the Hishaku tear each other apart while they stay out of it. They’d had enough. And Rokuhira… he’d better do his own thing.

When Ichiro came running back and shoved shot glasses into their hands, Jiro frowned. The moment his brother poured the boss some of whatever crap that was, he snapped,

“What the hell are you doing, idiot? He shouldn't drink!”

“My friend! My buddy! Love of my life!” the two idiots clinked their glasses, and Sojo stuck out his tongue at Jiro. “Traitorous ass.”

“When you drop dead, we’ll talk again!”

They argued for a bit, then got bored with it and drank anyway. They didn’t give Sojo another drop that night, and the New Year passed quietly — boring, even. Like real old men, they decided to turn in early. Sleeping in a pile was hardly comfortable, but the twins were still fixing the heating, so there wasn’t much choice. The boss hadn’t yet regained much flesh on his bones; he was still more soup stock than man. Skin and bones. He was always cold and refused to sleep without a warm sweater.

The boss. Jiro still called him that, out of habit. He needed to unlearn it. They were equals now. No boss, just Genichi. Like in the old days.

Jiro thought about that as snow quietly fell outside the window. Then he looked down. Sojo was sleeping, his lashes trembling in his dreams—

Wait a second.

“Can’t sleep?”

The boss cracked one eye open and gave Jiro a grumpy look.

“Not really… Maybe it’s the booze. One sip and I’m remembering the old days.”

They spoke in half-whispers, both glancing over at Ichiro when he mumbled something in his sleep and nuzzled into Sojo’s back.

“Want me to knock you out?” Jiro offered hopefully, earning a faint chuckle in response.

“Fuck you and your damn jokes.”

“Please? One small punch?”

Sojo’s kicks were vicious, all bone and no mercy, and Jiro had just experienced one firsthand. But he didn’t protest, just smirked and turned back toward the window, watching a clump of snow fall from a branch. Winters in the countryside were nothing like the city. He’d almost forgotten, after turning into a full-fledged Tokyo rat. The capital never slept, and its winters were mild; here, life itself seemed to hibernate. So had they. Hiding, waiting for the moment they could finally move again. But when?

“For the first time, I don’t know what to do. Stupid, huh?”

Sojo’s voice was quiet. Jiro shrugged.

“Live. Just… live.”

“But I have to do something. Can’t just sit around.”

“Sure, you can.”

The boss looked at him like he’d said something idiotic.

“I don’t get it.”

“Life isn’t all business, you know. You can sit and think about other things. Read a book, for once. How many years has it been since you had a proper vacation? Just think of this as one. And if that itch in your ass comes back, you can always go work as Sakuragi’s secretary. She’d be thrilled.”

That last bit seemed to ease whatever restlessness was gnawing at the boss. He sighed again, and together they gazed out into the yard. A winter night’s fairy tale. Beautiful. The calm felt strange after ten years of constant chasing, fighting, and surviving. Jiro didn’t turn when Sojo let out another quiet sigh and rested his head on his shoulder, dozing off, still staring somewhere far ahead, into the dark beyond the snow and the forest, searching for something even he didn’t understand.

A new year was beginning. And with it, a new chapter in their lives.

Winter went by much faster than Jiro expected.

Maybe it was because December had been spent dragging the boss back to life, and after that, only two months remained. Surprisingly, there were no dramatic illnesses, though Sojo had been in a half-dead state for a while. By the end of winter, he looked a bit better, though he still carried that sickly air about him, so the twins forbade him from doing too much work. Some light chores, sure, but that was it.

Over the winter, they’d managed to get the house in perfect order; now it was fit for living in year-round. The aunt who’d been taking care of the place was thrilled that the twins had returned and even improved it. One day, she came by bringing gifts — for the sons of my dear brother, she said. She already knew of Sojo by hearsay. The aunt was aware that Jiro and Ichiro had worked in not the most respectable field, and they’d mentioned their boss before, so his presence wasn’t much of a surprise. Still, when she handed over a bottle of alcohol, Sojo looked at it with the gaze of a man cruelly deprived by life. Since she’d come all that way, they even let him have a drink. Afterward, the aunt advised him to start light exercises for his arm to get back in shape — reminding him that post–clinical death heart strain was no joke and he should be careful.

A wonderful woman, really.

The villagers didn’t pay much attention to their arrival — probably remembering the old man, who must’ve told them plenty about his grandsons. Sojo didn’t appear in public much, not wanting to scare anyone with his extravagant appearance, so no one asked too many questions. A couple of times, some elderly neighbors came by asking for help with small repairs, like fixing a leaky roof, and since there wasn’t much else to do, Jiro and Ichiro agreed.

By early spring, the snow finally began to melt.

They were sitting on the veranda. Jiro lazily stared out into the yard, thinking it needed tidying — right now it was just puddles and soggy grass — while his brother and Sojo played hanafuda. Koi-koi. While Ichiro was trying to build rare, expensive combinations, Sojo went for his favorite cheap tactic — collecting five ribbon cards. He always used that tactic. Every damn time. And when it didn’t work, he’d fall back on “junk” cards. Predictable as hell. It made Jiro want to kick him in the ribs and yell, like, stop playing like a rat and fight properly! But, well… it was a tactic too, he guessed.

“I was digging around in the attic yesterday,” Jiro muttered, staring off into the distance, “and found Grandpa’s bamboo swords.”

“Training ones?”

Sojo had an unbelievable ability to hold a conversation without looking up from the game. He and Ichiro were practically ready to tear each other’s throats out over a red-ribbon card lying between them on the table, waiting for its champion.

“Yeah.”

“Toss that crap,” Ichiro suggested, but Sojo cut him off:

“Don’t. Keep them,” he turned to Jiro, finally looking away from the cards. “I need to get back in shape, and training with real weapons would be suicide. They’ll come in handy,” when Ichiro tried to peek at Sojo’s hand, Sojo caught him by the ear and growled: “You think I don’t see what you’re doing, you sneaky damn shit?!”

While Ichiro yelped dramatically, Jiro decided to fetch the bamboo swords from the attic. They were old but well-crafted, still sturdy after all these years — no mold, no cracks. Maybe because the aunt had taken such good care of the place. Who knew? He handed one sword to Sojo, who had just collected his three precious red ribbons and won the final round. Rising to his feet, Sojo pointed at the defeated Ichiro, who sat there, the very image of suffering.

“Come on, shithead. Let’s spar.”

“Isn’t it a bit early for you?” Ichiro hesitated, and Sojo narrowed his eyes dangerously.

“Feeling sorry for me?”

“Buddy, you literally died in our arms. We barely brought you back. That’s not a joke.”

“Shut up,” Sojo snapped, clearly not interested in listening. He grabbed the bamboo sword and headed toward the open patch of ground near the house. “If you don’t want to, I’ll call your brother. Well? What are you standing there for? You think I shouldn’t get back in shape?”

Of course he should, Jiro thought, but come on, it hadn’t even been six months since his damn death. Still, if the boss wanted to prove something that badly, what could you do? Jiro gave his brother a look, then grabbed a bamboo sword himself. He wasn’t great at fighting — he knew the theory, sure, but that's it — and Sojo was much better. Not that the man followed any particular style; all of them had learned on the streets anyway. Facing him, Jiro shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Sojo was still adjusting his grip on the sword.

“Shit. I’ve gotten so used to using my left hand, I forgot I’m right-handed,” he grumbled, then suddenly lunged at Jiro without waiting for a response.

Right-handed or not, he only had his left arm now. Still, Jiro knew this bastard had always fought well with both arms, and sometimes he even wondered if Sojo might’ve been ambidextrous. But no — the slower reactions gave it away. He let himself get hit a couple of times, made a clumsy counterattack, and soon realized the boss was already running out of breath. Taking advantage of a pause, Jiro struck him in the leg and sent him sprawling onto the wet, muddy ground. While the boss lay there cursing, Jiro circled him and poked the tip of the bamboo sword under his chin.

“Well? Happy now?”

“Shit! What a disgrace,” Sojo groaned, hiding his face in his hand. “Kill me. Just kill me already.”

“Oh, quit being so dramatic! You only just started eating properly, you haven’t even regained your old weight, and you’re already whining.”

“Shut up! I’m the one who suffered the most here!”

And if the boss was suffering, no force in the world could talk him out of it. Jiro just rolled his eyes. He grabbed Sojo by the arm, hauled him off the ground, and dragged him back to the house, grumbling that he’d better change into something dry before catching the flu. He hadn’t signed up to be his damn babysitter! After that, Jiro took Ichiro’s place in koi-koi. Unlike his brother, he didn’t go for the fancy combos — just animals and junk cards. In the end, he and Sojo were equally matched, which only made the game more intense, since there weren’t enough simple cards for everyone.

“Maybe I should call Kuguri,” Sojo mused suddenly, and the twins groaned in unison. Not again. “Ask him to give me a few private lessons. He was thrilled last time I asked him something — he’ll probably piss himself with joy if I do it now.”

“We don’t even know if that Kuguri guy’s still alive,” Ichiro muttered.

They remembered the guy well — one of Yura’s lackeys, a member of the Hishaku. He and Sojo hit it off right away: two freaks obsessed with blades. There was a third one too — Hokuto — and each of them jerked off to swords in their own way: Sojo worshipped their maker, Kuguri was into the art of swordsmanship itself, and Hokuto idolized the samurai spirit and the glorious death in battle. Three idiots. The twins never liked Kuguri much, and the feeling was mutual. Things between them and Sojo were fine, but the fact that he’d been one of Yura’s subordinates… well, given everything that had happened… And if that Rokuhira dumbass had started a whole “hunt the father’s killers” crusade, then Kuguri would definitely go against him — to “feel the essence of the blade” or some other pompous crap he loved to babble about.

“What if Rokuhira killed him?” Ichiro suggested, and Jiro nodded.

“He’s our enemy now, anyway.”

“He doesn’t agree with Yura on everything,” Sojo noted, though he didn’t argue further. Still, the thought seemed to deflate him. “Yeah… I’m downright miserable.”

“You’ve been whining nonstop. Start training little by little — you’ll get back in shape.”

“But it’ll take forever! And I’m not getting any younger.”

“Genichi, you’re not a hundred years old.”

“Alright, alright… what, I can’t complain a little?”

But the evenings were still cold — that had to be admitted.

The great thing about their grandfather’s house was the bath. Not just big — huge. When they were kids, they couldn’t even imagine living without one, but after spending years in the capital, Jiro realized just how extravagant the old man’s design really was.
Still, Grandfather had clearly loved soaking in hot water… Funny how that was something he and Sojo actually had in common, though their relationship had only started to mend right at the end. Fitting all three of them in there wasn’t a problem, and even though the boss usually preferred to soak alone, the twins forbade him from taking hot baths unsupervised — afraid something might happen to him, even though his wounds had mostly healed. Besides, it saved hot water.

The boss leaned his head over the edge of the tub, and Jiro, sitting behind him, stared absently at his back. There used to be scars there, later covered by a tattoo. Now, new scars had covered the tattoo again. A shame — the burn had ruined the artwork. It used to be a beautiful piece. Now only a fragment of the butterfly remained.

It was still strange seeing him with short hair.

“We should check out that bathhouse nearby,” Ichiro yawned beside him. “They say it’s nice. And tattoos are allowed.”

“I’m afraid I’ve got so many scars that the tattoo won’t be the issue anymore…”

“Come on, Genichi, it’s run by some old lady. You’ve got a talent, you know,” Ichiro snorted when Sojo turned his head with a skeptical brow. “You’ve got that ‘poor wounded boy’ charm that makes grandmas melt. You’ll score double sympathy points now that you’re all so sickly.”

“That only worked on a couple of old ladies.”

“Trust me, just put on a sad face, and every woman over sixty is yours.”

“Jiro, kick this idiot.”

“What—?! Ow! You bastards!” Jiro obliged.

They splashed around like kids — three grown men, just ridiculously greedy for hot water. While Ichiro kept trying to dunk his brother under, Jiro glanced again at Sojo, who was watching the chaos with a smirk. Something clicked in Jiro’s mind then. Well, if their days had become so nostalgic — like real old men — then reminiscing a little wouldn’t hurt, right? It wasn’t like they had much else to do out in this godforsaken place anyway.

“You planning to fix your tattoo once it all heals?”

The question, obviously meant for Sojo, made him grimace.

“Not sure I’m ready to go through that torture again.”

“Crybaby,” Ichiro snorted and immediately had his head shoved underwater for it. “Come on, you’ve got half your nerves on your back fried twenty years ago anyway.”

Sojo’s face twisted up like he’d just swallowed a whole lemon.

“That’s what you, you fucking shithead, think — that it’s all dead back there. It only burned the upper half of my back, remember? The rest is perfectly fine!” he started scratching the side of the tub with his short nails. “I can’t take this anymore! You two drive me insane! I’m done! I need a smoke!”

“I need a smoke!..”

Jiro had heard that from Sojo before — back when they were already over eighteen, no longer just errand boys in the underworld (the kind of work they usually gave to street kids; the twins had been lucky, with their grandfather watching over them), but actual low-ranking fighters. Their bosses worked closely together, so it was no surprise the three of them often ended up on the same jobs: while the twins worked under their grandfather’s subordinates, Sojo was grinding away for another old man — Iwakura. He was an underground trader, known for being able to sweet-talk any person he would meet on his way. Iwakura operated independently but constantly mingled with others, and Sojo — his protege — was his favorite bargaining chip. The old fox sent him everywhere because Sojo was wild, ruthless, and just as good at running his mouth.

That night, they were standing under the awning of a small bar while rain poured down. You couldn’t even step out — you’d get soaked instantly, and none of them had thought to bring cigarettes. Legally, of course, they weren’t allowed yet, but they worked in a business where the law wasn’t exactly respected. And after the bar fight they’d just had, none of them were in the mood to think about such nonsense. Their clothes were splattered with blood, and Jiro thought grimly that maybe getting caught in the rain wouldn’t be so bad after all — the lesser of two evils.

Back then, he and his brother kept their hair short — no mohawks yet — while Sojo wore his down to his shoulders. They’d all been showing off in those days.

“Maybe we should go back in? Ask for a smoke?”

“The seniors’ll tell us to fuck off,” Ichiro muttered. “They’re probably stealing the money in there. Without us!”

“Because they still think we’re kids…”

“Yeah, yeah, maybe so — but I still want a smoke!” Sojo groaned, then pulled off his shirt. “If anyone figures out how to wash out blood faster, let me know — I’m running out of clean clothes…”

“You’ve got a hole in your side.”

“Shit!”

The fight had been loud, and the flickering lights in the bar made everything feel like a bad acid trip. No wonder someone had gotten stabbed, and under all that adrenaline, you barely noticed such things. The wound wasn't that bad but messy, bleeding heavily, and Jiro, inspecting it critically, looked up to see Sojo clearly fighting the urge to poke at it with a finger. The idiot might’ve actually done it, too. He had that sort of morbid curiosity — probably something he picked up from old man Iwakura.

They brought the problem to Noriko-san, who, back then, looked exactly the same as she did years later, like time had no power over her. This time, she didn’t charge much, taking pity on three young idiots, and while she was washing her instruments at the table, the twins and Sojo were smoking a single cigarette between the three of them — one kindly loaned by the clinic’s owner. The whole time, Jiro kept watching Sojo’s back — the white scars still visible there. Noriko-san didn’t ask unnecessary questions, but Jiro caught a glimmer of curiosity in her eyes as she stitched up Sojo’s side. She’d probably start digging later, and she’d ask them, not him. Jiro really didn’t want to remember that nightmare of a scene.

Without thinking, he reached out and placed a hand on Sojo’s back, feeling the heat of his skin. Both Sojo and Ichiro gave him puzzled looks.

“What?”

“Ever thought about covering those scars with a tattoo?”

“You need permission for that.”

“You work for Iwakura,” Ichiro said with a smirk as Sojo turned to grab the cigarette from him. “If you ask nicely, he’ll get you one.”

“Hmm…”

Sojo didn’t seem that interested — but Jiro saw the spark in his eyes. Yeah, he’d try it for sure. Knowing Iwakura — who clearly treasured his talented protege, probably in ways Jiro preferred not to know — he’d definitely get permission for some flashy irezumi, something exactly in Sojo’s style. Though, to be honest, the nature of their relationship still puzzled Jiro. What was that old fox thinking about Sojo? So many questions.

“You should get a dragon!” Ichiro suddenly lit up, eyes gleaming. “Dragons are awesome!”

“Don't listen to that moron. You should go with a tiger.”

“Screw tigers! Get a koi!”

“I’ve already got an idea,” Sojo cut into their argument, and the twins both gave him a look.

“It’s a dragon, right?”

“Shut up, Ichiro.”

They honestly expected something grandiose — something totally Sojo. Despite his protests, Jiro was sure he really would pick a dragon. But when Sojo borrowed a scrap of paper and sketched something out — fast, messy — Jiro stared at the drawing in surprise. It wasn’t a traditional motif or a heroic figure typical of irezumi. It looked like a black blot, more like a Rorschach test than anything else. Only after a moment did he make out the vague outline of a butterfly. The twins exchanged bewildered looks. Ichiro let out an awkward little grunt.

“Genichi. You sure about that?”

Sojo didn’t answer, just grew serious. Clearly, there was no point in arguing.

But still… why a butterfly?

In the end, Grandfather agreed to the evacuation.

He, of course, wasn’t going. Stubborn old man. Jiro wasn’t surprised — he knew Grandfather’s temperament, and this outcome was almost predictable. The three of them, the kids, were taken by the same soldier who had come before. Grandfather didn’t linger with farewells; he shoved a bag of clothes and money into their hands, ordered them to keep an eye on each other, and said that once they arrived in another town, they needed to meet people who knew him, giving them the necessary contacts. Just in case, he told the soldier too, but Jiro remembered everything the first time. He had no intention of getting lost or showing off — he wasn’t that stupid. After what he’d seen, he understood perfectly how wonderful it was to have adults who could take care of you. Not everyone had that privilege. But his brother didn’t see it that way, making disgruntled faces, muttering that if they had to behave properly in front of strangers, it was better to stay with Grandfather! Sojo was going with them. He still felt weak but could stay conscious longer now; walking to the station himself, however, was out of the question — it was about an hour on foot. So the soldier carried him on his back to the place from which the train to the safe zone would depart. The twins shared some of their clothing with him, and he finally stopped looking like a ragged stray, though something of that image lingered. Sojo didn’t particularly object to all this. He was half-awake while decisions were being made, and by the time it was over, it was too late to change anything. Jiro thought that he didn’t care — he might have stayed with Grandfather, too.

The road was broken and rough. It hadn’t always been like this. Cars passed occasionally, mostly military ones. Living with Grandfather, they hadn’t really noticed how empty the area had become… Now it looked frightening.

“Has everyone else already left?”

“The evacuation’s been going on for a week. Today’s supposed to be the last train… that’s what the command thinks,” the soldier said after a moment’s thought. “There’ll be a lot of people from the capital, from dangerous districts. Lots of orphans. Ignore them if they bother you. People… they go feral when they see someone happier than themselves.”

Jiro immediately thought of Sojo’s friends and Narumi. The latter was probably there. That was good! For sure, he was looking for his friend. The thought cheered Jiro a little, and he exchanged a glance with his brother, who was still preoccupied with irritated thoughts about not wanting to leave. He felt warmer toward Grandfather than Jiro did.

Gravel crunched underfoot, and the sun shone from above. If it weren’t for the war, what a perfect day it would’ve been!

“You work for Grandpa?” Jiro asked the soldier.

The soldier hesitated.

“Yes… before I joined the army. I was part of a gang.”

“Grandpa said the army wouldn’t take someone like that. Criminal! Villain! Something like that.”

“The country really needs resources,” the soldier said wearily.

While they talked, and while Jiro figured out who this soldier was — one of the recently recruited members of the family who had stood out (for what, tattoos?) — Ichiro finally acted. The idiot suddenly dashed backward, clearly intending to reach Grandfather. Jiro panicked, wondering if the soldier would chase him, and what would happen to Sojo sleeping on his back. But the soldier just clicked his tongue irritably, and then the ground nearby began to tremble. At first, Jiro didn’t understand what was happening, but then he realized: the earth itself was forming into a shape resembling the soldier. Mud puppets! He was a sorcerer too! Amazed, Jiro watched as the puppets chased after his brother and, after a few minutes, caught him and dragged him back. Fortunately, Ichiro wasn’t stupid — he realized he couldn’t contend with such an opponent. Surrendering, he panted angrily and crossed his arms, mad at everything, while Jiro kept his gaze fixed on the soldier, fascinated.

“Cool! So that’s why Grandpa keeps you nearby? You are so useful!” the soldier frowned as if Jiro had struck a nerve. Jiro added quickly: “Well, he only likes strong ones nearby…”

“Stop trying to be nice, kiddo. I know what you’re thinking. Yeah… that’s why.”

“And that’s why you went to fight?”

“The country needs sorcerers. To end this hell on earth. For the next generations… for you.”

He said it awkwardly, as if he didn’t fully believe it himself, and Sojo stirred on Jiro’s back and half-sleepily murmured:

“Hell on earth.”

“Sleep,” the soldier scolded him, then looked back at the twins. “Don’t run off again.”

He didn’t destroy the puppets.

Soon, they arrived at Ueno Station; trains had run here once, and the place hadn’t completely lost its former grandeur, as if saying goodbye, but only briefly. The building still stood, though the windows were broken, and the road leading to it looked desolate. Yet there were many cars, and inside a crowd had gathered. At first, the twins only saw soldiers, but then they stepped inside, directly to the railway tracks.

“Today,” the soldier joked awkwardly, “you don’t need to pay for tickets.”

When the soldier led them to the boarding area, many people were already there — mostly women, the elderly, and children. Yes, evacuation… Jiro roughly understood the meaning of the word. He had heard it from Grandfather a few times.

Jiro and Ichiro observed the crowd with little interest — they had no plans to interact with anyone else; they were okay just with two of them. While his brother continued scanning the crowd for anything curious, Jiro looked back. The soldier’s mud puppets had vanished, and he finally set Sojo down on the ground. Sojo stood unsteadily; a few more days of proper rest at Grandfather’s safe house would’ve helped, Jiro thought. He knew how awful one could feel after being sick, and Sojo hadn’t just been sick. Whatever they’d done to his back had drained all the life out of him. Jiro offered his shoulder, and Sojo leaned against him. His skin was unpleasantly sticky and warm.

The soldier glanced around, then back at the twins. Despite his expressionless face, Jiro sensed his nervousness.

“Your grandfather will stay here.”

“Stubborn old man,” Ichiro muttered. “He’ll stand his ground till the end, huh?”

“You’ll take care of him, right?” Jiro asked, and the soldier rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’ll do what I can. But I’ll try,” he said hurriedly. “Don’t worry, and, if anything happens, try to survive. If everything goes well, we’ll come looking for you once the situation’s over. And if not…” he faltered. “Then… well. Let’s think positively,” Jiro thought the guy wasn’t thinking positively at all; his eyes were like a dead fish. “Take care of yourselves. If you need… write letters. You can pass them through soldiers or through people in the group, and they’ll get to me. My name…” he said it, and Jiro nodded, though he didn’t even bother memorizing it. He wasn’t planning to write to Grandfather. “And don’t be afraid. Remember to help your friend; he needs his bandages changed more often. And remember — everything will be fine. Swordsmen… they’ll save us.”

He said it with barely hidden hope, but it was easy to tell he genuinely believed it. Jiro… probably hoped so too. Who wouldn’t hope that some incredibly skilled people would come to their rescue? Like heroes from movies. Like those shows on Sunday mornings! But he was a kid back then, and it was normal to believe it. Now he was an adult.

He didn’t even get to ask the soldier if he’d seen the swordsmen, because he felt Sojo start trembling beside him.

At first, he thought it was another chill, but when he looked at his friend, he realized it wasn’t that. Sojo was staring down, deep in thought, biting his lip until it bled. Was he scared? Jiro reached out and grabbed his hand, but Sojo seemed not to notice, though his fingers dug into Jiro’s hand hard enough to scratch him.

“Alright. I’ve got to go. Goodbye,” the soldier waved. “Don’t forget grandfather’s instructions.”

And he left.

It was noisy around them, and the train still wasn’t in sight, so there was nothing to do. They finally found an empty spot to sit — a young woman with a child was already there — and settled down. Jiro gave the only available spot to Sojo, who didn’t even resist, though earlier he would surely have gotten angry. Was he feeling that bad? He had looked better this morning. It was stuffy here; maybe he was feeling faint… While Jiro watched his friend, Ichiro looked around behind him, then nudged his brother in the side and whispered:

“I saw a guy from his group.”

“Find Narumi,” Jiro hissed, and Ichiro nodded. His brother handed him the bag with their things and vanished into the crowd. Jiro’s gaze fell back on Sojo, who tilted his head back, exposing his thin, white neck. “Want me to ask for some water? Feeling unwell?”

“No,” these were his second words of the day, but the first clear ones. Sojo blinked slowly. “I mean, I feel bad. But it’s okay.”

“Hang in there. We’ll be heading to Kyoto soon, and Grandfather’s people will help. You won’t have to go anywhere else — you can rest properly.”

“Don’t worry.”

But I still worry because you’re my friend, Jiro wanted to say, but didn’t get the chance.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned. Maybe it was that special connection with his brother, because he immediately understood someone was coming for him. But it wasn’t just Ichiro; his brother looked furious, and a few people followed him, among them Jiro immediately recognized the pack leader they’d encountered once on the old battlefield. Something in his gaze didn’t sit right, but he couldn’t say what exactly. As they drew closer, Jiro heard Sojo rise from the bench behind them, as if all his weakness had vanished instantly, though he knew it was just a front, and he was barely holding on.

The leader scrutinized the twins, then locked eyes on Sojo. Sojo looked ready to bite him, and Jiro wanted to back him up in that stance.

“We were looking for you. Of course, after you took off without even thanking us for our efforts,” the leader’s voice dripped with resentment. “Made new friends? And what about Narumi?” his voice radiated venom. Sojo said nothing, scowling at him. “He died for you, remember? Or you don't care? Forgot us and found new friends?”

“Narumi’s dead?” Ichiro blurted, genuinely confused. The leader didn’t see it as mockery. His mouth twisted, and another boy, his peer, added:

“Yeah. Other people… did it. Come on, Tsuneki,” he tugged at the leader’s arm. “Leave him. Genichi, don’t listen. He is tired and talking nonsense…”

“I am telling the truth!” the leader roared, jabbing a finger at Sojo, who darkened even further. “Because of you, we lost four people! You were the reason why two of our friends died, Narumi was killed because of you, and you ran! You think things happen in this world just like that?! They don’t! You prove everything by force! With your talent and diligence! We should all work together, not…”

He shouted more, but the other boys grabbed his arms and dragged him away. Jiro watched without blinking; in the last words, the leader’s voice seemed to verge on crying, and Jiro couldn’t tell whether he truly hated Sojo, or if there was something else beneath his anger. But it didn’t matter. He turned to his friend, who had wearily sat back down, resting his head on the bench arm. All the false confidence had vanished; he looked really bad. His eyes were black as night, completely opaque, as if his entire soul had left, leaving only an empty shell.

Narumi was dead…

That’s why Sojo came to them. Because he had no one left. Suddenly, it made Jiro feel sick. Narumi had been a good friend. They had planned to see that castle in Chiba together! And now he was gone. And Sojo had probably seen his corpse… Despite Jiro and Ichiro growing up around cruelty — Grandfather could beat someone to the blood pulp if he wanted — they hadn’t seen corpses yet, and the thought scared them a little. And Sojo hadn’t even cried when he saw it all. When he came to them, the dirt under his eyes didn’t look like whimpering. He only cried from pain…

“Don’t listen to him.”

A new voice startled him; the same mother with the child, who had been sitting nearby the whole time, placed her hand on Sojo’s shoulder and squeezed it. When he looked at her absentmindedly, she added:

“He’s lying. Many are dying right now! And it’s not your fault. You feel unwell, right? You’re burning up,” she tilted her head, looking around, then beckoned the twins with her finger. “You,” she pointed at Ichiro, “go to the soldiers and ask for water. And you,” now at Jiro, “can look after the children, right?”

“Huh?” he asked.

“Watch Koichi,” she placed the child on the floor. He was already one year old and clearly happy about the new acquaintances. “I’ll take care of your friend for now. Your name’s Genichi, right?”

She cooed something else, like a mother hen, and after Ichiro brought water, she made Sojo drink a little, then rested him on her lap, placing the bottle against his forehead, though it was hardly cool. She stroked his hair, speaking right and kind words, but Jiro felt that Sojo didn’t really believe her — he was just exhausted from all the nonsense and drifted to sleep.

Meanwhile, they entertained the toddler, who found their magical masks amusing rather than scary, laughing and clapping while Jiro and Ichiro performed a dance of two lions.

The train didn't arrive, and the army promised it would come tomorrow morning.

When Jiro woke up, he heard adults whispering, and the kind woman sitting nearby was crying. Half-asleep, he pushed forward through the crowd, which was staring at something in a far corner of the station. Then he froze when he finally saw what had captured their attention.

The first thing that drew his eye was a bloodied brick lying near him, and then he looked up and saw the leader of the teenage gang sprawled on the ground in a ridiculous pose. Soldiers had clustered around him, covering him with a sheet, but Jiro caught a glimpse of his hollow eyes and the smashed head, a large pool of blood seeping out — just for a second, but it was enough. So that’s what corpses looked like. For some reason, it didn’t strike his soul at all. Not even with fear.

Later, Ichiro told him that Sojo had gone missing, and Jiro understood why the woman with the child had been crying so bitterly: she clearly knew who had killed that boy. But none of the three of them, who knew the secret, said a word.

In the evening, the train finally arrived, and they set off for Kyoto.

To be honest, Jiro wasn’t very good at remembering the names of all the mercenaries they worked with, so he tried to focus on details, like their sorcery or appearance. For example, right now, a guy had come in who could literally fry your brain by recreating a terrifying nightmare, and he looked like a squirrel, so Jiro remembered him well, but his name? Nope, just wouldn’t stick. He was one of the sorcerers they occasionally hired. Apparently, he had his own team, which included his younger brother, who also resembled a wide-eyed squirrel, and a second man who mostly stayed silent, which is why Jiro hadn’t remembered him.

The two of them walked down the corridor of the capital office, and the trauma sorcerer gestured wildly:

“…so finding someone won’t be hard, and neutralizing them is easy. My abilities allow it, and as I understand, this is exactly what Sojo-san needs. If I get close enough, the victim won’t even be hurt, just knocked unconscious, and then you can take it from there.”

“That’s useful,” Ichiro commented, trudging behind.

“Exactly! But cornering someone is tricky, and that’s where my partner comes in. His sorcery is more combative.”

They emerged into the hall, where the partner sat with the trauma sorcerer’s younger brother, lazily flipping through a newspaper bought at the kiosk. Without the markings on his face, he wouldn’t have looked so flashy, unlike his companion in a simple suit with a fairly boring haircut.

“There he is. Numachi, stop reading that crap, you’ll ruin your appetite.”

“I’m looking at the horoscopes,” he said monotonously, then lifted his eyes to the newcomers.

This man was clearly older than the twins. The trauma sorcerer, in contrast, seemed younger, but Jiro didn’t feel a significant difference. Yet the older man’s face showed he had seen more shit than anyone gathered here. He really didn’t look remarkable… yet somehow Jiro felt vaguely familiar with him, so he stared intently at the guest. Perhaps that unnerved him, because he exchanged a glance with his colleague and cautiously asked:

“Something wrong?”

“Haven’t we met before?” Jiro continued studying his face, and Ichiro joined in. “Feels like I’ve seen you somewhere.”

“Doubt it. We haven’t worked together before.”

“Where did you work before this?”

“I…”

But the man didn’t get to answer because Ichiro suddenly snapped his fingers.

“I remember! I remember where I saw your tattoos!” he pointed at the guest, and everyone turned toward him with curiosity. “You visited our grandfather! Old man Inugami! The soldier,” he elbowed Jiro and grinned, “don’t you remember? The one who carried us to the station.”

“Oh my god,” said Jiro and the guest simultaneously.

“Eh, looks like a cute little reunion?” the trauma sorcerer glanced at his colleague. “Any preferential treatment for old times’ sake?”

It was said more as a joke, but how could Jiro dismiss a soldier who had worked for their grandfather? Especially a man they knew so well.

In the end, they invited the soldier to have a drink right there in the office, so they could discuss the past without fear of being overheard. The soldier seemed slightly embarrassed by the offer, but after a couple of shots, he loosened up — it was clearly pleasant for him to recall old times. The three of them remembered their grandfather and the group, then talked about what everyone had done after the war. In general, everyone’s lives had followed a fairly predictable path: after the army, the soldier tried to work for the Kamunabi, but realized it wasn’t for him and returned to the family.

“I’m glad Inugami-san lived a long life. I thought you would follow his example and stay with the group.”

Jiro clicked his tongue as he drained another shot.

“No, new guys had taken over, and another guy became the patriarch. If my brother and I had stayed, we’d have just been in the way, grandfather’s kids and all that shit. Then our friend popped up and offered to work independently, so we left. Sheep safe, wolves fed. I think there is a proverb like this? We still work with them sometimes, just to save everyone some nerves.”

“So you’ve been working with Sojo-san for about ten years?”

“Yeah, roughly… but we’ve known each other longer,” Ichiro poured a bit more, and they clinked glasses. Despite how much he had drunk, the soldier didn’t seem drunk at all. “Since, let’s say, childhood!”

“Really?”

This seemed to elicit a slight, indulgent smile from the soldier, or maybe Jiro imagined it, being a little drunk himself. The man could just smile politely.

He hadn’t had time to say more because the door burst open — they were in the guest hall, now empty but still fairly trafficked — and Sojo himself stepped in. Judging by his worn-out appearance, he had been fussing with paperwork again. In moments like this, he transformed from a dangerous fighter into an office rat, even gathering his hair into a small ponytail at the back — such a businessman, look at him! Noticing the three of them drinking, Sojo gave a peculiar look and clearly intended to pass by. Sober Jiro might have let him, but slightly drunk, he called out:

“Genichi! Stop wasting time on that crap. Look who’s visiting us today!”

The former soldier shifted uncomfortably at Jiro’s casual familiarity with the boss, especially since he was a well-known figure, but Sojo seemed eager to escape paperwork and approached them, then critically looked at the guest. They exchanged glances, the ex-soldier introduced himself, and Jiro proudly announced:

“Remember the guy who… uh, no, better not. Numachi-san, tell me, do you remember taking us to the station? Two of us, and the third carried on your back?” the man nodded absentmindedly, and Jiro proudly pointed to Sojo, who was listening with a very puzzled expression. “And here he is! That brat! Look how he changed!”

The soldier’s expression changed as if he truly remembered everything, going pale. Sojo stared critically at him, then back at the twins.

“What are you idiots talking about?”

“You don’t remember?”

“If I did,” he snapped, “I wouldn’t be asking now.”

“Damn! The guy who came to grandpa during the war! The one who carried us to the station!”

Sojo looked at him again as if he were an idiot, then shrugged and waved vaguely.

“I have no damn idea what you’re talking about.”

“Genichi, you remember perfectly fine, don’t play dumb!”

Even though he looked like he had no idea what they meant, his eyes showed that he remembered everything perfectly and was just pretending. Why, though? After a moment, Jiro shrugged, clearly not intending to argue, and Ichiro, ready to join, just nodded. Then Sojo dryly thanked the soldier for something unspecified and left. They watched him go for a while, then the soldier sighed heavily and downed the rest of the bottle at once, prompting a gleeful cheer from Ichiro. Jiro glared at him, frowning.

“I don’t know what’s up with him. Probably just in a bad mood again. Don’t be mad at the boss, he’s not that kind of jerk.”

“No,” the soldier said absentmindedly. “I think I understand perfectly. It's good,” he gave a crooked smile, “that he survived after all.”

Jiro wanted to ask what he meant, but never did.

When spring had fully taken hold and the streets finally warmed up, it was time to do something useful, though Jiro still had no idea what exactly they were supposed to do. Time passed aimlessly: in winter, they at least had an excuse — normal work was hard to come by at that time, and the boss was still recovering — but spring left them with none. Sojo had healed enough to demand even more sparring sessions between the two of them, which was quite annoying, and the weather was much better now.

Occasionally, Sakuragi would call, giving the twins some quick cleanup jobs and handing their beloved Genichi some documents she didn’t have time to check herself. But it all felt trivial compared to their past business… Returning to it was out of the question, not only because they’d have to rebuild everything from scratch, which would be difficult given the ransacked bases and spheres of influence, but also because the Kamunabi agent knew Sojo was alive. If the boss were to move even just a finger, an executive squad would descend on him. Everything was bleak, and so one day, when there was absolutely nothing to do and the sun was shining brightly, Jiro had a brilliant idea.

“Let’s visit Grandpa’s grave.”

The old man had died of old age at ninety. He had been a stubborn bastard, and even in death, he was obstinate — not from illness, but simply one day he didn’t wake up, despite doctors' warning him that his body was worn out from overusing sorcery decades before; it was a miracle he’d lived so long. He was buried in the local cemetery, not too far away — a short walk, just enough so Sojo wouldn’t keel over along the way and whine at them the entire trip. The boss treated the idea indifferently, but he was bored too, so he didn’t refuse.

“Surely it’s already clean there, Auntie’s been tidying up everywhere, so we’ll just say hello,” Jiro said lazily as they climbed the hill. Luckily, it wasn’t hot yet, though he still felt winded. “We’ve only been here a couple of times anyway. And it’ll do you good, too — show some respect for the old man.”

Sojo trailed behind, pale but stubborn and angry. In that, he and Grandpa were very much alike. Perhaps that was why they hadn’t gotten along at first, though the old man’s heart had eventually softened. Hearing this, he skeptically rolled his eye… just one. In public, he kept the pale ocular prosthetic hidden under an eye patch. It looked funny, of course, though still unfamiliar.

“Yeah. He is definitely gonna care.”

“Come on, don’t be such a bitch. Grandpa liked you, after all.”

“Just because he felt sorry for me as a kid doesn’t mean he liked me.”

The twins just exchanged a glance. They knew that if the old man’s heart softened toward someone, it meant he liked them. He wouldn’t have hated a child, either. But arguing with Sojo was pointless — he was stubborn — so they shrugged.

“You should visit your family, since you’ve got this awesome, endless vacation.”

“What, you think I remember where they died?” Sojo sounded genuinely surprised by the suggestion.

“How could you not remember?!”

“That was a long time ago, and I didn’t want to remember it. Simple as that.”

“Damn, at least you could go to your homeland…”

“No need,” Sojo cut coldly, hinting that there was no point in further discussion.

He always dodged answers! They were distracted when Ichiro suddenly muttered thoughtfully:

“I wonder… where did Narumi live before…”

Narumi had no grave. Jiro still had no idea exactly how he died or where he was buried. Obviously, it had happened during the war, so it had been done in a hurry. Maybe now his bones were buried under some highway. When Ichiro said this, Jiro noticed Sojo’s face darken, lips pressing tightly together, but none of them said a word, and Jiro tried to steer the conversation to something a bit lighter:

“Genichi, did he ever tell you where he was born?”

“Huh?” Sojo seemed lost in thought and answered absentmindedly. “Yeah… once. Some north city.”

“Maybe…”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“If his family’s dead, he probably doesn’t even have a grave.”

“What’s with you guys getting interested in stuff like this?.. Fine, whatever. Doesn’t matter.”

“You can act all indifferent as much as you want, but we know you smashed that guy’s head for Narumi.”

Sojo groaned loudly, as if the entire conversation caused him endless pain. Maybe it did, because he had lost the ability to feel empathy around the same time, and had become an unbearable bastard.

“Geez, this is ridiculous! That was almost twenty years ago, and I wasn’t in my right mind.”

“It must feel bad when no one remembers you…” Ichiro pondered.

“Who cares? You’re dead.”

“Hey! What about accomplishments? Look, Rokuhira Kunishige’s been dead for three years. And you remembered him! And that kid, too.”

The argument clearly hit, because the boss had no immediate reply. But it angered Jiro for some reason. He didn’t understand why. They hadn’t spoken about Narumi in nearly twenty years, longer than he had lived, and now it was so sudden… The main thing was memory! If a person is forgotten, they die completely. And if the past is always discarded, nothing remains.

Exactly like now.

“If we’d stayed in the lab,” he suddenly said coldly, “and Rokuhira had killed us, and then you too, we wouldn’t even have proper graves. No one would remember us.”

He hadn’t intended to sound so strict and harsh, like giving a lecture, but after that, all conversation instantly stopped, and they walked in complete silence all the way to the cemetery.

As expected, Auntie had already cleaned everything up, so all that remained was to sit by the stone, remember the good times, maybe say a prayer. God knows what was supposed to be done — they had always been distant from esoteric shit and had forgotten the proper rituals. Grandpa didn’t care much either, so they simply did what they felt was right — left his favorite cigarettes on the grave. Ichiro took charge of almost everything; Jiro just sat nearby, absentmindedly staring at the monument, then glanced at Sojo. He thought that at some point, the boss would get bored and wander off to smoke a cigarette — they still weren’t allowing him to smoke a lot, but he remained standing, staring at the monument with a distracted gaze. Maybe he was still thinking about their words. Sometimes it was easy to understand what was on his mind; other times impossible, like now. What was he thinking? Remembering something? Feeling Sojo’s gaze, he looked at him, but Jiro said nothing and simply turned his head away.

When they finished, Ichiro chattered the whole way about Grandpa, reminiscing about childhood before the war, and Jiro occasionally agreed. Sojo trailed behind silently, only stopping when they passed a spring-bloomed cherry tree alley. The air was thick with sweet fragrance, and the twins only noticed Sojo slowing a few steps behind.

“Something wrong?”

Sojo looked at them strangely, but without any strong emotion. Then he lifted his head as the wind blew, and pink petals danced in the air. He shook his head.

“No, it’s just…” he hesitated and shook his head again. “Forget it. Let’s go home. I’m tired.”

After arriving in Kyoto, chaos erupted over where to house the refugees, because their train wasn’t the only one to arrive in the city. Jiro and Ichiro, as expected, said they had some relatives there, and soon a man from the organization that had worked with their grandfather came to meet them. However, they were still just two young children, and nobody knew what to do with them — there wasn’t a suitable place available. After many negotiations and mutual yelling with their grandfather over the phone, the twins were redirected to a temple located on a mountain near the city, which served as a sort of orphanage. The place wasn’t exactly luxurious, but it wasn’t overcrowded, and it was sponsored by the same organization, so Jiro and Ichiro were accepted into it without complaints and were provided with a bed and meals. They didn’t mind; it was far more fun with other kids than being surrounded by boring adults who did nothing but talk about tedious affairs and the future.

There was no word from Sojo, so they didn’t know what he was doing. Was he even alive? Of course, they hoped so.

At the temple, they mostly followed routine chores — cleaning the yard, sorting letters, because the nearby army headquarters couldn’t keep up, and since a bunch of kids had nothing else to do, they helped with it. Most of the time, they were left to themselves, playing or reading (there were plenty of books). Occasionally, they were taught, but the temple staff had enough problems of their own; if lessons were held, they were usually about religion. They said that schools in the city were still operating, but there weren't a lot of teachers, many having gone to the front. Overall, being without school was quite good.

At some point, Jiro realized this place wasn’t just a temple to dump a bunch of kids into — it was more like a refuge, a place to gather all those most affected by the war. Many were from completely destroyed areas. Some lost everything at the beginning of the war, some during advances, and some simply had their towns or villages scorched to the ground by the retreating enemy. Many cried often; there were many little babies. Older kids tried to help, but they were still children themselves, so it was hard for everyone. But Jiro and Ichiro were among the oldest here, which meant a lot. The monks’ guidance was the only thing keeping them from dwelling on the past. Maybe that was the point.

There were a few younger children from Sojo’s old group, but the older boys hadn’t come. Jiro wondered why. Was it because their leader had died?

But Jiro and Ichiro didn’t despair. They didn’t know what had happened to their father, and their grandfather called regularly, so they tried to do their best for the others. Almost like adults! Wasn’t that kind of cool?

Still, the place clearly existed to get rid of extra children and problems.

There weren’t many peers around. There was one girl, the oldest, fifteen, who often helped with the babies, as she had younger siblings once. The rest were younger than the twins, except for one — a boy their age. They didn’t know his name; he barely spoke. Honestly, he reminded them of Sojo, with the same empty gaze he had before disappearing. But he wasn’t a nasty moron — he didn’t demand special treatment and did everything asked of him. He had bright blonde (almost red) hair and a scar on his temple. He reminded them of a fox, which made it funnier when they learned his name was Fushimi.

He was clearly lonely. The older girl was always busy, and he was afraid to interact with the little ones, so he couldn’t find his place. Taking him into their group was easy; the twins simply started talking to him, and after a while, Fushimi became their friend. Of course, he spoke little, mostly playing puzzles or drawing, but that was enough. Sometimes, that was all that was needed. They were peers, still very much children, but the twins understood that, so they didn’t overwhelm Fushimi with explanations. Maybe Sojo had taught them that.

Everything changed when they were listening to the radio with the temple’s head priest and one of the few miko, and news came through about the front’s situation. Jiro was half-listening, but the moment the announcer spoke about the owners of the blades, something lit up in Fushimi’s previously empty, lifeless eyes. He listened intently to everything being said, and after the program ended, he went out into the temple yard with a dreamy look. That was when they managed to get him to talk!

By evening, they were sitting on the temple steps, watching the city in the distance. It glittered with lights, as if nothing had happened. As if there had been no war. In Kyoto, it really felt less intense. The twins sprawled across the steps, while Fushimi sat between them, drumming his fingers on his knees. He didn’t stay silent long; soon, he couldn’t hold back:

“I was saved by one of the swordsmen.”

Jiro and Ichiro instantly perked up.

“Whaaaat?!”

“Could it be… the Sword Saint?!”

“No,” Fushimi thought for a moment, then added shyly, “It was Uruha Yoji.”

If collectible cards of the swordsmen had been released for kids (which eventually happened, though by then Jiro and Ichiro were no longer children, so it didn’t concern them), Uruha Yoji would probably have been near the bottom of their wish list — maybe even the very last. Not that he was bad, but he was young and boring, and no legends had been spun about his abilities like Misaka Ibuki or Samura Seiichi. Uruha was simply… adequate. So they tried to hide their disappointment, scooting closer to Fushimi, signaling they wanted to hear the story, and he hesitated.

Some things were unpleasant to remember. Jiro placed his hand on Fushimi’s knee.

“If you don’t want to talk, don’t do it.”

“Yes, if it’s scary or painful, better not to speak.”

“No… It’s already happened,” Fushimi said, though his face paled. He swallowed hard. “Can I hold your hand?” he asked Ichiro, and Ichiro nodded. “Sorry. It’s just… all of this…”

Fushimi was from a small fishing village on the coast, one of the first attacked. He hadn’t seen his parents die, but his older brother had, who was fifteen at the time. When his brother joined the partisans along with other survivors, Fushimi followed, even though his brother had intended to hand him over to soldiers to take him somewhere safe. He wasn’t the only child to join the group; there were several others, and soon the partisan unit figured out how to use children for their advantage. In short, they were delivering messages.

“The partisan unit?! Wow!”

“Yes,” praise clearly made him happy. “Everyone had something to do.”

They moved around the territory quickly and quietly, and the enemy didn’t care about the kids (mostly, they considered them looters). Fushimi’s brother’s unit passed information to the main army. Everything went well until the scheme was found by the enemy. Maybe there was a traitor. Maybe the enemy simply figured it out because they were just kids. Fushimi didn’t know. He was eleven, and when their small unit was captured, he didn’t realize something bad had happened.

Until they were interrogated about the partisans’ location and the contents of letters.

“My brother was the captain of the squad… so they beat him a lot… I got kicked too, because I tried to help him,” Fushimi tapped the scars on his temple. “But we were kids, and the enemy unit didn’t really know what to do with us, because they didn’t want to kill us. Until their commander arrived.”

The torture got worse. When Fushimi’s brother refused to give information, the captured children were hanged to scare the survivors. Fushimi spoke calmly, but he gripped Ichiro’s hand so tightly it was obvious Ichiro didn’t pull away out of respect. They tried to break his brother, but failed, and then they ordered Fushimi to be killed. The enemy had realized they were related. His brother tried to resist, got injured… The commander decided to exploit the situation and didn’t kill Fushimi, demanding information in exchange for his younger brother’s life.

“They interrogated him again. I don’t know if he said anything… But when they shoved him into the shed where they had held us before… He was in bad shape. Barely conscious. He kept asking me for forgiveness… He was shivering so badly. Then he got cold. I hugged him, trying to keep him warm, but…”

When Fushimi sobbed loudly, Jiro grabbed his other hand.

“Let’s stop.”

“No! I… haven’t told about Uruha Yoji yet. That’s why we started all this. And… It’s time to let go. That’s what the head priest said. I didn’t tell him, but he understood right away,” their new friend continued, swallowing and speaking through tears. “My brother died a couple of nights later. They interrogated him a few more times… broke his fingers. Did other things, too. Apparently, the wounds got infected. And we didn’t eat there, so… it all happened quickly. At night, he didn’t regain consciousness at all. Didn’t even drink. I was useless to them. They immediately ordered to dispose of me. I just accepted it then. How could I live without my brother? They brought me to the same gallows where they hanged everyone else, said they’d leave the body there, as a lesson for the enemy…”

A mark from the rope was visible on Fushimi’s neck. Maybe it would fade later. Jiro didn’t know. They scooted closer to Fushimi while he felt his throat.

“They tied my hands… When I couldn’t breathe anymore… everything felt like it turned upside down. And then I could breathe again. Uruha Yoji single-handedly wiped out the entire unit,” he paused, exhausted, then added, “If he’d been a little later, it would’ve been too late. And I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. Didn’t know what to do without my brother… But… you know, they talk about them on the radio like they’re gods of war. Like they’re not people. Far from us… And Uruha Yoji cried with me. Helped bury my brother. Or rather, he did it all… Said he didn’t care that he was late. I lost consciousness… from hunger and pain… and he carried me back. But he was very kind. Before they sent me here, he often visited me at the local hospital. Made me eat because I refused to. Said I couldn’t give up. Otherwise, who would remember my brother? So I’m glad. That I met him,” he wiped tears from his eyes with a fist, then sniffled and timidly looked up at the twins. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to cry.”

“I’d be whining too if that fool had died,” Jiro said, nodding at Ichiro, who suddenly turned pale. “So don’t be upset… uh… about being upset.”

“But at least you became friends with that swordsman, right? With Uruha Yoji!”

“Shut up, Ichiro! That’s not the point!”

“Yeah,” Fushimi weakly smiled, “We become friends. He even gave me a toy. You know… sometimes they give toys to kids in hospitals. To lift their spirits a little. He said I was too old for toys, but maybe it would help a little.”

“And? Did it help?”

“What kind of toy?”

Fushimi blinked slowly.

“A little fox… plush. It’s here… with me. I thought about giving it to the little ones. Because it already helped me. Let it help someone else, too,” he paused, seeming as if all his strength had drained. “Thank you… for listening. I’m glad things at least went okay for you.”

The twins exchanged uncertain glances.

“Uh… not exactly.”

They didn’t go into much detail about Narumi because it wasn’t their grief, and they knew too little. But something about it felt familiar. Something… Though Sojo hadn’t cried at all. Not a single tear he shed; he just stood there looking down, as if he didn’t know what to do next. Meanwhile, Fushimi, even several minutes after telling the story, was still crying. People experienced tragedy so differently… Jiro couldn’t understand it. He glanced at Ichiro as they returned to the sleeping room and wondered — would he really have been upset if that person had died?

Some answers were better left unknown.

That night, they let Fushimi sleep with them in bed, preventing the nightmares from consuming him completely. By the end, he fell asleep deeply, seeing no terrifying memories, nothing at all. Jiro, however, couldn’t sleep, thinking of Sojo, who had vanished into the night and from whom there had been no word for about a month.

In the end, they became friends with Fushimi. He was their age but clever; he knew a lot and told them many things. He was still sad about his brother, but sharing with someone and receiving sympathy seemed to lighten his burden. Sometimes he would go pray in memory of fallen friends and family, but most of the time he spent with them, and it seemed that being around peers slowly improved his mood. At least he stopped looking like a ghost. He gave the toy — the plush little fox — to one of the younger children, and in the evenings they would sometimes watch the little ones at the temple playing with it. A couple of times, they had to sew the tail back on, but that was better, wasn’t it? It gave the toy a real purpose, to continue bringing joy to children.

They lived like this for about a month, and then everything changed.

Well, that sounds more dramatic than it actually was. In reality, it wasn’t anything particularly grand: the twins and Fushimi were sweeping the temple stairs out of sheer boredom, while the mikos were busy, and soon they heard a voice in the distance. The head priest. From far away, his bald head became visible. He walked, speaking in a calming tone, as if persuading, and next to him was someone — apparently a child, because at first they hadn’t noticed. But when the two of them came around the corner and ascended the stairs, when the priest nodded at them, the twins…

… dropped their brooms, because walking next to the head priest was Sojo.

“Genichiiii!”

They ran to him so fast they nearly knocked him over and tumbled down the stairs, causing the priest to panic.

“Careful!”

Sojo… hadn’t changed much, still resembling a thin, fierce wolf pup, but a spark appeared in his eyes; he no longer looked like his soul had been shaken out and never returned. He was clearly no longer sick. In short, he resembled the Sojo they had known before all the terrible events that had happened before the evacuation. He grinned as the twins grabbed his hands and pulled him up, then turned to the priest and said:

“Well, I guess I'm staying.”

“Do you know each other?”

“Yes!” the twins exclaimed.

The stairs were completely forgotten because a heartfelt reunion was underway. They had to quickly introduce Sojo to Fushimi, and seeing him, Sojo clicked his tongue.

“Really? I leave for a while, and you go and get a replacement? Traitors.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Shut up, idiot!”

“How old are you?” Fushimi answered. “I don’t like it. Why are you taller than me? Don’t like it. Don’t come near me!”

Of course, these were just jokes. Sojo… seemed chattier, livelier, although Jiro thought that Narumi’s death would have left him broken, like Fushimi after his brother died. Or maybe he was just trying to fill the hole in his heart left by a friend’s death, chattering nonstop to cover it up. Like a rebirth: from cocoon to butterfly. Jiro decided not to ask. He simply sat on the steps as they gathered to hear Sojo’s story of what he had been doing, and Sojo, looking at the three boys, crossed his arms over his chest and sighed, brushing hair from his face.

“Where the hell have you been, you damn bastard?!”

“Exactly! We were so worried!”

“For nothing,” Sojo gave them a disdainful but amused look. “I ran off to Chiyoko.”

“You’re in love with her, huh? With Sakuragi. I knew it.”

“I’m not in love with her,” he growled, and Jiro and Ichiro laughed.

“Suuure!”

“When I toss you off the stairs, let's see how you will sing.”

It turned out that he really had gone to Sakuragi after hitting the group leader with a stone. The twins didn’t ask about it, and Fushimi wisely kept quiet, knowing it wasn’t the best topic right now. Sojo didn’t tell much: only that Sakuragi had taken care of him, and then the evacuation reached them, and they were moved here. Since he was an orphan, not related to anyone in the entertainment district, they tried to place him in a city orphanage. Sojo ran away but later met the temple head, who offered him refuge. Something about him appealed to Sojo (for example, that the temple was far from the city, where former friends from that group could reach him), and he agreed. So the reunion was just a fortunate coincidence.

“As soon as I saw the monk, I went after him,” Sojo said carefreely as they headed to lunch. They served vegetable soup, which, to be honest, already made Jiro a little nauseous, but better that than hunger. It was obvious from the way Fushimi ate greedily. “You could tell he wasn’t lying about being a priest. You can see from afar who sells people. They have that look… You know immediately that they’re scum. But this one had a composed gaze.”

“Composed?”

“Wise, I say, wise! Learn more words. Besides,” he added proudly, “monks are awesome.”

“What? Since when do you like that kind of stuff?”

“Have you not heard the story of the mad monks who fought Oda Nobunaga?”

In the evening, they had bathing duties; they went last, although usually the eldest went last, leaving the warm water for the children. Luckily, it was summer, so water wasn’t that precious — they even got some. When the moon rose, one of the miko asked them to clean up after themselves; they climbed into the water tub and gazed at the city, clearly visible from the mountain. Previously, the view filled Jiro with a strange melancholy, but now, with their friend back, those worries didn’t visit him anymore. He turned back to the boys, watching them chatter, then furrowed his brow when he noticed the scars on Sojo’s back. A bunch of white scars here and there.

Jiro vividly remembered the scene in the house. Knife, gag… Sliced skin, withered flowers beneath…

When he placed his hand on Sojo’s back, Sojo suddenly turned sharply.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Jiro snorted, then rested his head on Sojo’s shoulder. “Missed you, idiot.”

They really had missed him. And worried. Maybe Sojo understood, because he didn’t say a word when Jiro grabbed his hand and squeezed, thinking — I will never let you go again. Not a chance.

Chapter Text

Sometimes Jiro remembered that moment with the butterfly, though he couldn’t explain why. There was something about such pointless cruelty that struck him, but overall, he just thought that Sojo had become more vicious and aggressive since then. And despite his increased talkativeness, he had grown even more withdrawn, keeping everything to himself. It was noticeable later too, when they became teenagers and joined the gangs; sometimes they only found out Sojo had gotten hurt in some fight by accident, like when they had to deliver papers to his boss back then, and the guy mentioned it offhandedly. But when they got older, that secretiveness even worked to their advantage because Sojo’s weaknesses and secrets were known only to him.

Of course, the twins still remembered their childhood well. Scars on the back could be hidden beneath tattoo ink, but they knew what really lay underneath. As well as what weighed on his soul. Maybe it was the constant danger around the boss that had shaped him — a world where you couldn’t trust anyone. Everyone knew the old truth: keep beating a dog, and it’ll turn savage.

But in the village where they were hiding now, in their grandfather’s house, there was nothing like that. The only real “danger” was the nosy neighbor, who could show up unannounced and ask them to fix her leaky roof — but that wasn’t danger, not really. The calm atmosphere was relaxing, and Jiro noticed that Sojo had gradually stopped looking like he was ready to rip out anyone’s throat at the slightest provocation. He even laughed more often at their ridiculous jokes. Maybe it was for the best that they’d quit everything. It was good to change one’s line of work, to rest a bit. To give themselves a breather.

Perhaps this was his chance to finally learn what had happened back then — near the end of the war, when Sojo had crawled to their doorstep half-dead. Jiro had talked it over with Ichiro, who rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly but agreed that it might be worth trying. Whatever had happened, it had clearly changed Sojo too much to ignore. Before, they were trying to be polite so never asked about it (Fushimi's story made them think it was a dangerous thing to ask), but now...

So one day, while they were sitting on the veranda, dusting off some old books they’d found in the attic, Jiro suddenly asked:

"You never told us what really happened back then."

"Back then?"

"You know what I mean. When Narumi died."

It seemed to Jiro that the moment he asked the question, the color drained from Sojo’s face, though maybe it was just a trick of the light. They really had never talked about that. Jiro and Ichiro had always thought that prying into their boss’s soul was stupid, and Sojo wasn’t the kind of person to spill his guts anyway — unless it was over some trivial nonsense. He could put up with all sorts of hardships; it was only around them, in safety, that he might start whining, like, man, how do I live without cigarettes, because he knew they’d just laugh it off. But something like that… that was different.

Jiro suspected those weren’t pleasant memories, which was why he’d never pushed. But now they weren’t the feared pillars of the underworld anymore — just three guys living out their days on the edge of the world. Back then, it made sense not to go looking for the boss’s weak spots, but now Sojo wasn’t really their boss at all; they just called him that out of habit. That’s why Jiro finally decided to ask what had been on his mind. He honestly expected Sojo to brush it off or refuse to talk, and that would’ve been fine. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could just casually bring up; they’d seen enough war veterans to know that look. But everything lately had been pointing toward that moment — the incident at the clinic on the day of the auction, the old memories...

Jiro watched Sojo closely as he stared off into the sky, still sitting on the veranda. At first, he seemed to ignore the question completely, but then his eyes suddenly dropped to Jiro’s, and his brows furrowed.

"What’s with the sudden interest?"
"I’m just curious, man," Jiro shrugged. "You’ve been my buddy since we were kids, and I don’t even know what happened to you back then. Or what’s been eating you. That’s not right."

Sojo’s face twisted into something almost stupid.

"Eating me? What the hell? You idiot? Nothing’s eating me," he laughed. "You think I’m one of those dramatic freaks who’ll spend a lifetime chewing on their trauma? That was ages ago. Just a couple of unpleasant memories, that’s all. All right, quit making that face…" he sat up, and Jiro, on the contrary, lay down beside him on the veranda. From the kitchen, Ichiro poked his head out — the way someone does when they’ve been half-listening the whole time. "You really wanna know?" Sojo snorted. "Funny. There’s not much to tell. I just saw," he said it in an utterly even tone, "one of the blades in action."

It was one of those sweltering days, and the head of their gang — a bastard named Tsuneki, who was already sixteen at the time — had once again sent them out to hunt for anything they could steal and later sell. That day, Narumi stayed behind with him, since the boss needed someone to quickly read through a pile of documents (there were a lot, and not many extra hands), and Narumi was good at that sort of thing. Sojo didn’t care much; he joined a group of two other boys whose names he couldn’t even remember now and went exploring with them. He wasn’t the leader of that group, but unlike many times before, they actually listened to him, so he could give advice. When they reached the outskirts of the capital, ravaged by fires and enemy attacks, they started debating which way to go.

Earlier, they’d scavenged a map from a half-burned, long-abandoned tourist shop that had somehow survived, and they’d marked on it the places they’d already been and the ones to avoid — either because other scavengers claimed them, or because adult gangs operated there. In hard times, crime thrived. Sojo only understood why much later, when he became part of it himself. Back then, as a kid, he just got angry that the adults were stealing from them — their one chance to get something, anything, they could trade for food. Nobody cared about orphans; the country was barely holding on. It was only after the appearance of the sixth blade, Rokuhira Kunishige, that things began to change.

“Where should we go, then?” one of the boys asked, and the three of them looked over the map. Most zones were already crossed out as explored, and the parts shaded black were still controlled by the enemy — strictly off-limits, by Tsuneki’s orders. Sometimes, responsibility did flicker in him, especially when it came to his crowd of half-starved kids.

“Maybe west?”

“Better north,” Sojo said.

“They say there are still enemies in the north!”

“But we’ve barely been there,” he countered.

“And there…” one boy added timidly, “there might be swordsmen.”

Of course, like any kid, Sojo had idolized the swordsmen. They were like heroes from television who had stepped into the real world. Sorcery was still a relatively new word back then, something strange and wondrous, like it belonged to a storybook. He wanted to see them — those chosen warriors — and their incredible blades with his own eyes. At the start of the war, when he’d ended up in New Yoshiwara, he met Chiyoko, a young woman who worked there and had taken pity on a stray orphan. Sojo, in return, stole food for them. Through her, he met a one-legged armourer who knew everything about weapons. That man taught Sojo the basics he’d carry for the rest of his life — and he was the first to tell him that the true strength of the swordsmen lay not in the men themselves, but in their weapons. But Sojo had been only twelve then. He admired Rokuhira Kunishige’s creations, but he still couldn’t help idolizing the swordsmen themselves. He couldn’t even pick a favorite — they were all incredible! Most people loved the Sword Saint, but Sojo thought following trends was lame. He decided his favorites were either Misaka Ibuki — because he was a bosozoku and, therefore, one of them, a stray by spirit — or Uruha Yoji, because he was seventeen, only five years older than Sojo, meaning he was practically their peer. If Yoji could become that cool, then maybe Sojo could too!

After a bit of thought, they decided to try the north. Sure, Tsuneki had told them to stay away, but people only respected Tsuneki’s rules when he was around — or when he said something that actually made sense. They had nothing better to do anyway, and coming back empty-handed was risky. It could earn them a beating or worse, no food.

So they went north, though the road was long, taking several hours.

The capital was vast; though battles still raged in the northern districts, the eastern parts, where they usually lived, were relatively calm. Still, the nearness of the front could be felt in the constant fear of the people. No one paid attention to children anymore. Once, skipping school would have meant punishment; now, people simply turned away, not wanting to add the burden of abandoned orphans to their own struggles. Sojo had long since stopped caring. He just thought about what they might find near the battlefields — places others were too afraid to touch. Fear meant untouched treasure. Treasure they could trade for food. To eat something — something real... He could only dream.

“Maybe we shouldn’t go,” one boy whimpered, and the other hissed at him.

“But we need to find food! Otherwise, Tsuneki’ll lose it again.”

“Why doesn’t he get it himself?” Sojo muttered.

Up ahead, the street was charred, and the air was thick with the stench of burnt wood. The adults said half the city had burned because so many buildings were wooden.

“I heard he’s tight with one of the adult gangs,” said the first boy, “and made a deal with them not to touch us.”

“Who?”

“The other gangs,” the boy shrugged. “That’s just what I heard.”

“We should’ve left the city,” the second kid sniffled again. “They say far north it’s peaceful. Schools still work there.”

“We had schools too until they burned down.”

“Well, they still have them up there! And they feed the kids too…”

“Genichi,” the first boy called, “you’re friends with those two twins, right?” Sojo nodded absently. “Do they go to school?”

“Hell no, they don’t! Their grandpa probably doesn’t care what they’re up to,” Sojo snapped.

He couldn’t deny the envy, though. Sojo had never been the type to crave studying, but now he often thought wistfully about the peaceful life they’d lost. He would’ve given anything to go back — to not have to survive day to day, wondering if he’d eat tomorrow. They were lucky when soldiers pitied them and shared rations, but that had only started recently. Before that, when their army was losing, the soldiers were cruel, bitter. A few times, Sojo had even been beaten for begging for scraps. He had been only eleven.

It was the first birthday he’d ever spent starving and without parents.

He hesitated for a moment, then pressed his lips together. What did it matter? Yeah, he envied the twins. They had a grandfather. They had food. And a real home. For them, the war was far away. He was too young even to join the partisans. He just wanted to wake up under a roof and have something to eat in the morning.

“You could ask to live with them,” the crybaby whispered. “If they’re your friends, maybe they’ll take you in. You could ditch Tsuneki!”

“I can’t leave Narumi,” he said firmly.

“Then take him with you!”

“The twins wouldn’t take him.”

“Bullshit!” the first boy scoffed. “He’s always with you. They wouldn’t mind.”

“Their grandpa would,” Sojo muttered.

They argued about it for a while, though the idea of staying with the twins sounded tempting. He would’ve even agreed to work — anything to stop scavenging for “treasures” and trading them for food. Maybe once the swordsmen ended the war, everything would return to normal. School again… But then a darker thought came: return to what? There was no home left. No family. He was completely alone and worth nothing to anyone. Nothing would ever be the same again. The thought made him sick, and he tried to shove it away.

Eventually, they reached the northern districts — places untouched by anyone. There were still people there, but few, far fewer than one might expect. Some refused to abandon their homes for the sake of “safety,” because their homes were all they had left. Climbing onto one of the surviving rooftops so no one would overhear, the boys spread out the map. Nearby was a small commercial block, full of old shops — maybe, just maybe, they could find something useful there. The locals had probably looted most of it already, but they had to try their luck. And if not, they’d just keep moving.

So he thought — but fate, it seemed, was especially cruel to him that day. People used to say some were born under unlucky stars, and perhaps Sojo’s star was Mars, because there was no other way to explain how their small attempt to find anything to trade for food ended with them getting caught by a local gang. These were adults, and unlike some, they had no intention of pitying the children who were simply trying to survive. A mistake, flashed through his mind. We made a mistake. It’s because I said we should go north. It’s my fault…

The three of them were seized, beaten, and thrown into a room where several adults were already sitting. They looked like bandits — and clearly lived better than most around them, because they didn’t look like starving shadows. Their clothes were clean, their faces confident. One of them — the one sitting in the center, with slicked-back hair — glanced lazily at the kids tossed into the room, put out his cigarette, and stood up.

“What’s this?”

“They were stealing,” someone behind them muttered. “Didn’t have time to grab anything. Should we kill them?”

“Hm…”

As he approached, unhurriedly, the other two boys began to whimper and beg for forgiveness, but no one was listening. The gang leader studied them, and there was something in his gaze that Sojo instantly disliked. He hated people like that — smug, self-satisfied bastards. Their eyes met, and the boss suddenly sneered and kicked him in the face with all his strength. Everything went dark for a moment, though Sojo didn’t lose consciousness; he just hit the floor hard. The taste of blood filled his mouth.

“He pissed me off,” the man said, shaking off his shoe with a click of his tongue. “Small kid, but he looks at me like a wolf pup. Hm… Ito!” he turned somewhere behind him. “Didn’t we have some folks asking if we had anyone to sell?”

“The guys who got the datenseki. Why?”

“I think,” the leader’s gaze drifted back to the three boys, “we might have just the kind of merchandise they’d want.”

Oh no. If they were sold, nothing good would come of it. They had to get out. Panic gripped Sojo’s heart; he had never felt such fear — not even the first time he’d seen a corpse. He ignored the dizziness and tried to stand, to run — but his feeble attempt only made the men laugh, especially the boss. The man grabbed him by the collar of his filthy, stretched shirt and hurled him to the floor again. Pain shot up his back, and he started coughing, then the kicking began.

“Little shit! Think you’re smart, huh?!”

“Don’t kill him if you’re planning to sell,” someone chuckled nearby. The boss shook his fist.

“I’ll fucking decide myself what I do!”

After that, Sojo must have blacked out. He barely remembered what happened next — after they’d beaten the life out of him. He thought they were taken somewhere, and the other two boys were shaking him, trying to wake him up. He didn’t want to open his eyes. He just wanted to sleep, because when he slept, nothing hurt. He could feel blood trickling from his nose; in brief flashes of wakefulness, he saw the bruises on his skin turning a dark, ugly purple. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt so much. He just wanted to fall asleep and never wake again.

But he must’ve really been born under an unlucky star because he woke up anyway, when someone was hauling him somewhere with the others. He hung limply over a shoulder like a sack of sand, unable to move. His head hurt, every heartbeat pounding in his skull. Everything seemed to move in slow motion: he was dropped to the ground, heard the whispers of the other boys. The floor was cold and hard. When he finally forced his eyes open, he saw bars. They were inside a cage. It was cramped. The other boys had to sit hunched even when seated, so the three of them pressed close together, like real puppies. From above, through the bars, the gang boss peered down at them, alongside a stranger — a man in glasses. Both were smoking.

“They’re clean?”

“Yeah,” the boss flicked ash down toward them, and Sojo watched it fall, mesmerized, as glowing specks landed beside him. “No parents, no one. Street rats. You can chop them up if you want.”

“Whole specimens will fetch more,” said the man in glasses, adjusting them. “They’ll need something to, hm, hold the stone.”

“How are the results, by the way?”

“We still haven’t found a way to stabilize it, though the last samples were better.”

“From corpses, yeah?”

“Of course.”

“I’m surprised our army didn’t collect them.”

“Your army’s got enough trouble already,” the man said flatly, looking at the cage again. His face showed nothing, not even disgust. He looked at them as if they were rats, not humans. “But we need to prepare.”

“Yeah… Otherwise, once the war’s over, those damn enchanted blades’ll be used for purges…” the boss grimaced and tossed his cigarette down, then gave the man a pointed look. “Guess it’s true, huh? Whoever’s got power makes the rules.”

The man in glasses winced.

“Please don’t litter in my laboratory.”

They kept talking about something, but in Sojo’s head the words echoed: Whoever’s got power makes the rules. The strong always dictated the terms… Like Tsuneki, like this man… like the twins’ grandfather. Yeah. If only he were strong… If only he could do something… One of the boys shook his shoulder, and Sojo let out a faint groan. The men looked at him again, and then the boss lazily turned to the man in glasses.

“Not afraid your own army’ll punish you for desertion?”

“Their time was up the moment Rokuhira forged the sixth blade,” the man rolled his eyes and grimaced, and Sojo remembered what the armourer had told him about Rokuhira Kunishige. Whoever holds the power makes the rules. The man who forged a weapon capable of killing a god… “I’m just trying to survive. Don’t think we’re that different, really. Anyway… shall we start with this one? He looks like he’s about to die. Might as well…”

But he didn’t finish.

Or rather, Sojo lost consciousness again. His head still ached too much. He blinked — and when he opened his eyes again, everything had changed.

Because it was bright. And quiet.

His vision was blurry, like after a long sleep, and he blinked several times. Something felt… off. He felt a little better, but still awful, like there was a pain deep inside him. Like when you sleep in a bad position and pinch a nerve. That was it — it felt just like that. Slowly, as his sight cleared, he sat up and looked around.

He was no longer in the cage where they’d thrown him earlier, but in a bright room — not because of lamps, but because the ceiling had a massive hole through which sunlight streamed. The place resembled a hospital, though it smelled different — an unfamiliar, cloying scent that tickled his nose. Strange. Why was the roof broken? He was lying on a hard metal table. Beside him, on a slightly rusty cart, lay a piece of stone wrapped in cloth. But it wasn’t the hole in the ceiling or the odd smell that startled him most — it was the silence. There wasn’t a single adult around.

No one at all.

Only his own breathing echoed in the air.

After a moment’s hesitation, Sojo checked himself over. He seemed fine, or rather, not fine, but no worse than before. No new bruises or cuts, just the dark mark around his wrist from when they’d dragged him by the arm. The blood from his nose had dried, leaving a crusted trail. His head still spun, but he moved anyway, creeping toward the door. He glanced around cautiously, but the dead silence told him no one was nearby. It took him a few minutes to explore the place. It wasn’t large — just a few rooms and a half-basement. No one upstairs. But downstairs, the air smelled strong and strange, and Sojo figured that must be where the cages were. He had to free the other boys or Tsuneki would kill him. Probably. Honestly, though, he wasn’t doing it out of kindness. He didn’t really care about those boys. But he wasn’t going to be a bastard and escape alone. Maybe… maybe Tsuneki wouldn't be mad.

He descended the stairs.

It was the first time he saw the cage clearly — really saw it, not through the haze of half-consciousness.

There were many of them here, stacked like chicken coops, one on top of another, and almost all were occupied, though their captives were asleep. Maybe they’d been put to sleep somehow…? Sojo glanced briefly at the other prisoners, then searched with his eyes for the cage that had held the two boys. They, too, seemed to be asleep. The door of their cage hung open. Sojo frowned. Why hadn’t they escaped? He crawled inside and shook the crybaby by the shoulder. When he tugged too hard, the second boy slumped backward, and Sojo saw his face.

He had seen corpses before, even children’s, so that alone didn’t frighten him. But how this body looked — that was different. The boy’s eyes had rolled back, and deep scratches marked his throat, as if he’d tried to claw it open to breathe. And from his mouth — and from one of his eye sockets — grew flowers.

White lilies.

Sojo recoiled with a scream, slamming his back against a stone pillar behind him. He shouldn’t look. He shouldn’t look. But he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Flowers… they were everywhere. He realized suddenly that the same blossoms filled the other cages too — and the heavy, suffocating scent filling the basement was the smell of those very flowers. It was so thick and sweet he couldn’t breathe. Panic seized him, and he bolted, stumbling up the stairs without watching his footing. Pain flared through him again, but he didn’t care. He just needed to get out. He burst through the doorway and staggered outside — then looked up.

Above him, like grotesque decorations, hung bodies. People, dangling upside down, suspended like marionettes. The gang boss was among them. Some were missing arms; others looked as though they’d been torn in half. And from all of them, from every ruined body, flowers were blooming. Lilies. Magnolias. Irises.

Blood dripped from above. Like rain.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

All around him, the world was overgrown. Vines climbed the buildings; flowers burst through windows and roofs. The entire place looked alive — a single pulsating organism, like a giant heart. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the tangled greenery, casting a dappled shadow on the ground. Without thinking, Sojo reached up, as if trying to grasp something unseen — mesmerized by the awful, surreal beauty of it all… Far above, a massive inky butterfly spread its wings.

Beautiful…

A drop fell onto his face, and his eye twitched. In that instant, it felt as if hundreds of needles pierced his back all at once — he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. His body went rigid, and he collapsed beneath the hanging dead. Weakness flooded him instantly, and then everything went black.

He woke because he heard something again, but louder this time. When he cracked his eyes open, the first thing he saw was the face of the man in glasses — and blood dripping from the clean, severed edge of his head. The face was frozen in agony, and from the eyes, the mouth, and the wounds, flowers were blooming too. Sojo jerked backward with a scream. Then he looked up because the unknown man was holding that head.

In the stranger’s other hand gleamed a sword, its tsuba shaped like an insect.

The man lowered his gaze to him.

You could call him handsome, maybe, but it was the beauty of a flower on the verge of wilting. Once, he must have been a powerful warrior, but now he looked like a shadow of what he had been: pale, hollow-cheeked, hair unkempt. He was dressed plainly, not like a soldier, but there was no mistaking it. He was the one who had grown this terrible garden of corpses. The one who had killed everyone here. The one who…

His mother had always told him — Genichi, don’t rely on the gods. Don’t be careless. Don’t expect help from above. She’d said it the day before she was killed. And he’d thought — yeah, there’s no one left to rely on. He’d built his life with his own hands. He’d chosen to help Narumi because Narumi still stupidly believed the gods would save them, even after the first enemy soldier had stepped onto their soil. But this man… something about him made Sojo doubt his mother’s words. Because in front of him, he wanted to fall to his knees and beg for mercy. This wasn’t just a warrior. This was someone...

Someone mightier.

Whoever holds the power makes the rules.

The head of the man in glasses fell to the ground with a dull thud, and the swordsman slowly turned toward him.

Sojo wanted to run — he had never felt such raw, animal terror — but his body refused to move. He managed to crawl backward just a little until his back hit a metal pole. He felt like a rabbit before a wolf. He stopped breathing altogether when the man’s gaze fell upon him. It was as if his eyes were two black voids — bottomless, empty — but when Sojo blinked, the illusion faded. Still… there was something about him. The hunched posture. The spotless clothes in this nightmare of blood and rot. Something… wrong.

“... a child.”

The man’s voice wasn’t what Sojo expected. It was quiet, like a whisper of wind through grass. Or maybe it only seemed quiet because Sojo could hear nothing but his own heartbeat — insane, pounding, deafening in his ears. He could only stare, frozen, as the man sheathed his beautiful sword and stepped closer, leaning down. When his fingers brushed Sojo’s cheek, the touch was both burning hot and icy cold. He pulled him gently by the shoulder, forcing him to stand. But he didn’t squeeze his throat or hurt him. He only studied his face, narrowing his eyes slightly, as though trying to understand something.

He was so scared. So scared. Sojo wanted to run, to flee as far as possible, but it felt as if he moved even a step, this man would draw that blade and take his head.

“How did you survive…?” the man murmured. Sojo didn’t answer — he didn’t even dare breathe — but the man didn’t seem to expect a reply. “Ah, you must be in shock,” he said softly. “Poor thing. But you don’t need to be afraid anymore.”

The man smiled gently, and the warmth of that expression was terrifying in its dissonance with the scene around them. His fingers brushed the dirt from Sojo’s face tenderly.

“There’s no more danger here.”

“…You… you killed them all?” Sojo’s voice trembled, the words barely forming on his tongue.

The man’s face didn’t change. He didn’t know if what he felt was fear or reverence before something divine that had descended to earth. The swordsman’s enigmatic smile simply widened.

“That’s right.”

Sojo didn’t know what to say. The first thing that stumbled out was:

“But… why?”

“Why?” the man echoed, as if surprised by the question himself. “Why indeed… Perhaps because these people didn’t deserve to walk this earth. Because filth like this must be eradicated. Isn’t that so?”

All of them? Sojo wanted to ask. Even the ones in the cages below? Even those two boys who’d done nothing worse than steal? But fear clamped his jaw shut. He only clenched his fists, teeth grinding until his gums hurt. Crescents of blood appeared in his palms where his nails dug in. He felt as though he weren’t speaking to a man at all — but to something that could erase him in a single breath if displeased. Yet the man still hadn’t harmed him. He’d only touched his face.

“In the end,” the man said quietly, his hand resting on the hilt of that beautiful blade, “that is the purpose for which this weapon was created. To destroy. Don’t you think so?”

Sojo only shrugged faintly. The heavy floral scent made his head spin, and his back ached again. He wasn’t in the mood for philosophy; besides, he was twelve.

“Tired? Poor thing?” the man’s voice softened again. “You’ve been through a lot. Let’s get you out of here.”

A broad hand came down on his head, ruffling his hair, then the man took his hand.

Despite how tightly he’d gripped the katana’s hilt before — or the other man’s hair — his touch now was barely there, light as air. Sojo didn’t have the strength to resist anymore; he just accepted it. If not for the corpses around them, it might almost have looked normal. But he was too afraid to even raise his eyes to the man beside him. The man looked kind, but there was something wrong about him— something distorted, something… terrifyingly off.

Empty.

Yes, that was it — he was empty. Like the husk of a cocoon, hollowed out after the butterfly had already emerged. A butterfly… yes.

A centipede crawled by his feet, and Sojo flinched, stepping aside not to crush it.

“Where are we going…?”

“To the army,” came the man’s soft, lifeless reply.

“You’re a soldier?”

“Yes,” the corners of his mouth twitched. “I’m a soldier.”

“And a sorcerer?”

“A sorcerer too.”

“Did you grow those flowers?”

Did you kill my friends? He almost asked, but stayed silent. The man paused, as if deep in thought. They had stopped in one of the district’s narrow alleys, completely overgrown with green. His lips — already bitten raw and cracked — made him look less like a terrifying warrior and more simply… terrifying.

The heavy floral scent stung Sojo’s eyes.

“Both yes and no,” the man said at last, laying his hand once again on his sword’s hilt. “All thanks to this weapon.”

Sojo was a clever boy, and he knew how to connect facts. Sometimes they saw swordsmen in the archival broadcasts brought to the city to keep civilian morale high. Later, he’d realize it was all just propaganda, but back then, at twelve, he didn’t even know what that word meant. He’d believed every word they said. And suddenly, he remembered where he had seen this man before — on television, in one of those programs. They’d talked about him on the radio. He was one of the…

“It’s an enchanted sword, isn’t it?”

His question came out timid, but the swordsman’s smile widened. He stopped again and met Sojo’s gaze, then deftly slipped the sheath from his belt. In the sunlight, the golden tsuba gleamed like a jewel — though that was exactly what this blade was: a treasure.

Standing before Sojo was the man who had led their army to victory. The Sword Saint, some called him. They prayed to him like to an icon. He was the idol of nearly everyone Sojo knew. A living legend. Ah, Sojo thought, mesmerized by the sword in the man’s hand, maybe this is the god of war himself, come down to save me.

“Yes,” the man said quietly. “You are right.”

If Sojo hadn’t been so frightened, he might have asked to touch it. But beside this man, he felt deeply uneasy — and once again, he thought maybe he’d chosen better idols for himself.

“A magnificent weapon, forged by an equally magnificent master,” the man said. “Remember the name Rokuhira Kunishige, child.”

With a soft click, he drew the blade slightly from its sheath, and in the reflection, Sojo saw himself: battered, filthy, unworthy to stand beside such a figure.

“He is the one who will bring victory to our country,” the man went on. “He created the greatest weapon in the world — the only one capable of finishing what was started. Of putting an end to this war.”

When the sheath clicked shut, Sojo blinked up at him.

“To use such a masterpiece at less than its full potential,” the man murmured, his eyes unfocused, “would be the height of ignorance and disrespect to the creator and to the creation itself. That’s why I must do it to the end. If you've chosen a path in life, you should commit one measly lifetime to it. That's why... I carry the will of the creator.”

“What will…?” Sojo asked, though he already knew the answer. Because war was no different from a giant street fight. And when the man’s cold gaze met his, Sojo answered for him, voice flat: “The enemy annihilation?”

“Scorched earth.”

That was what he said. And Sojo thought — so it wasn’t a weapon of salvation after all. That legendary craftsman, Rokuhira Kunishige, had made these blades not to protect life, but to spill blood. Because whoever holds the power makes the rules. He glanced back down the overgrown street where he’d come from — where the two boys, the man with the glasses, and the slick-haired boss all lay. No one left. Total annihilation. Scorched earth. Then he looked back at the man. The light in his eyes had dimmed; he turned silently and began to walk forward again, holding Sojo’s hand. Sojo followed, trying not to stumble, though his ears rang and his back burned, as if insects were crawling just beneath his skin.

Remember this, the man said to him. There is no greater truth in the world.

Sojo remembered this, but not much of what happened next. At some point, his legs gave out, and the man noticed. He lifted Sojo in his arms — strong arms, calloused but warm — and carried him all the way to camp. Soldiers ran around in chaos, shouting orders. The man handed Sojo over and disappeared. Later, Sojo would think he shouldn’t have stayed either; he had seen something forbidden — like a truth meant never to be known. He had seen a war hero who was a murderer; a man who had felt no flicker of guilt while slaughtering dozens, including Sojo’s friends. Fear gripped him again. Taking advantage of the confusion in the camp, he slipped away. No one came after him — he was just a drop in the ocean of that day’s disaster.

Years later, he would learn that it had been one of the government’s “purges” — a test run of their plan to wipe out not just the enemy, but also the crime festering in the country’s core. It was what the Kamunabi had wanted, and what Rokuhira Kunishige had prevented by taking back his blades.

He ran back toward the hideout of their little gang, desperate to tell them what he’d seen. They’d been gone maybe a few days… Sojo didn’t know. He ran without stopping, ignoring the blood on his bare feet. He fell more than once, scraping his knees raw, but each time he forced himself up, driven by terror and by something else he couldn’t name. By the time he reached the end of his journey, he could barely walk. The pain in his back was unbearable, as though something were clawing at his skin from the inside, ready to tear it open. He was nauseous, drenched in sweat. He barely remembered how he reached their base — a half-ruined vegetable warehouse — and how he stumbled in and fell to the floor. The last thing he heard before blacking out was Narumi’s startled shout.

When he woke again — he didn’t know how much time had passed — his entire body ached, his back most of all. He was burning and freezing at once, shivering violently. I’m sick, he realized dimly. He remembered that almost every child who fell ill ended up dying — there was simply no one to help them. But that had been in winter… He couldn’t think straight now. He just felt awful.

When a cold hand touched his forehead, he closed his eyes. Someone held a bowl of warm water to his lips. But it wasn’t Narumi — he could hear Narumi’s voice nearby, arguing furiously with Tsuneki.

“… what are we supposed to do with him now?! Are you kidding me?!” Tsuneki barked. He was always the pragmatic one. “We can’t afford to drag dead weight around!”

“But he’s saved you more than once!” Narumi’s voice trembled with anger and despair. “You can’t just leave him to die!”

“And who’s gonna do his job, huh?! You want to waste our resources on him?! He had two others with him — where are they now?! Look at him! He’s already done for!”

I’m going to die, Sojo thought. The realization came to him with strange calm. He felt no regret. I’ll die because I was weak. Yes. As they always said, whoever holds the power makes the rules. Tsuneki was stronger than Narumi, so Tsuneki was right. Sojo would die, and they wouldn’t waste precious resources on him. He’d seen so many of his street friends die that death itself didn’t scare him anymore. But he did feel sorry for Narumi. Alone, he probably wouldn’t survive long. They’d bully him because he was different. He should have lived a little longer, at least for Narumi’s sake.

What had that man said?

Right.

If you've chosen a path in life, you should commit one measly lifetime to it.

Sojo cracked one eye open.

They were in the warehouse, in one of the rooms. He lay on his side on a tattered mattress, covered with a thin, grimy sheet. Tsuneki and Narumi were somewhere nearby, but they likely weren’t looking at him; instead, another boy sat next to him — one of the older ones who usually looked after the kids. He was Tsuneki’s age and one of the gang’s leaders, but kinder toward the younger kids. Seeing Sojo awake, he took a cool rag, dabbed Sojo’s face, then gently stroked his hair.

“Don’t listen to Tsuneki,” he whispered. “He’s just angry. Talking nonsense.”

“I’ll do his job!” Narumi shouted desperately from behind the door, and Sojo flinched.

Narumi couldn’t do his job. Sojo was stealing — he knew how to trick people, how to slip by unnoticed — and Narumi was clumsy, awkward. He wanted to speak, to tell him not to, but only a faint groan left his lips; the two boys outside didn’t hear it. Tsuneki, fired up, snapped back with cruel certainty:

“Yeah? Fine. Then today you’re gonna steal something — from the soldiers.”

That was a trap. A suicide mission.

“Fine!” Narumi’s voice cracked, thin and scared. “Then you’ll leave Genichi alone!”

Wait, stop! Sojo wanted to call out. You’ll die! Or get hurt! But no sound came, and Narumi was already gone — storming out, furious — with Tsuneki following. The boy who had been tending to Sojo just shook his head, sighed, then turned Sojo onto his back. Sojo groaned — the pain was unbearable. He winced when the cold compress touched his forehead.

“What the hell happened out there?” the boy muttered, mostly to himself. “Two didn’t come back, and you’re barely alive. Where were you?”

Sojo had no strength to speak, so he simply pointed upward, north. The boy frowned but said nothing more. He gave Sojo some water, fixed the blanket, told him to sleep, and left the room. Sojo didn’t resist (he couldn’t have, even if he wanted to) and closed his eyes, sinking into blissful blackness.

He didn’t know how long he had slept. It felt like he woke up several times, the world a blur. His back felt like it was cut, burning with pain, so much pain… Sometimes someone sat beside him. Sometimes, no one. Everything spun and swayed; nausea twisted his stomach, and he would squeeze his eyes shut until he fell back into darkness. Snippets of voices drifted in — something had happened. Tsuneki was angry. Tsuneki… After some time, Sojo woke again — this time more aware, though still weak and feverish. He was in the same place; no one was beside him now, but he could hear voices outside the room. Tsuneki was speaking — maybe to the others. His voice sounded muffled, maybe because Sojo wasn’t fully conscious yet, but the words came through clearly enough:

“They beat him to death.”

“What?!” someone gasped, and Tsuneki, annoyed, repeated:

“To death. Smashed his head. There was nothing left to save… I barely made it out myself.”

“How could that—?”

“He was just a kid…”

“I told you we shouldn’t mess with soldiers,” grumbled the boy who had been taking care of Sojo.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Tsuneki cut him off. His voice was sharp, like sparks flying off a fire. “Narumi’s dead. There’s nothing we can do, so don’t start crying. No point dragging the body back — they’ll clean it up faster than we could. Happens, right? Died like a dog…”

He let out a short, bitter laugh.

Narumi was dead.

At first, Sojo didn’t process the words — then understanding hit him like a wave. Narumi. Narumi… Narumi was killed. He really went to the soldiers, and they, never kind to thieves, had beaten him to death as an example to others. His head was crushed… he’d probably lost his glasses, too. Sojo felt something twist inside, but no tears came. Ah, he thought, maybe I really am broken. There’s nothing human left in me. Just like that man with the enchanted sword. Tsuneki’s words about a dog made rage flare up in Sojo, but the pain had drained him so much that he couldn’t even move. Later, years later, he’d wonder if that was just a cope, because, for all Tsuneki’s cruelty, he had still taken Narumi in. Sixteen years old, acting tough because crying wasn’t allowed. Maybe that cruelty was only a shield. But back then, Sojo didn’t care — he saw only that Tsuneki mocked Narumi, the boy who had died because of his order.

A few hours later, Sojo forced himself to stand and, unsteadily, made his way to the exit. The boy who had looked after him sat by the door, crouched, smoking a cigarette. Seeing Sojo, he froze, then hurried after him.

“Where are you going? You shouldn’t even be standing — you’ve got a fever!”

“Narumi… Where’s Narumi?”

“Narumi…” the boy faltered, and Sojo grabbed his arm. His voice came out harder, sharper.

“I know he’s dead. Where did they kill him?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Why? Sojo almost laughed.

“I have to bury him. He’s dead…” he muttered clumsily, recalling. “Like a dog.”

“Tsuneki again?” the boy frowned, then told him the location. The camp wasn’t far. “But listen—” he gripped Sojo’s shoulders, making him flinch in pain. “Don’t go there. You’re too weak. You’ll die too.”

“Who cares?”

In the end, Sojo ignored him and simply walked away in silence. He didn’t care anymore. When the war began, he’d been alone — until Narumi appeared. Annoying, fussy, too smart for his own good, useless in most things — but easy to be around. He liked to listen. To talk. They were… yes, maybe they really were friends. And even though Sojo felt sick knowing Narumi had been killed, he didn’t understand what to feel. Was he supposed to grieve? He couldn’t cry. Get angry? He didn’t have the strength. It felt like he didn’t even care that Narumi was dead.

Maybe he’d just gone insane. That seemed easiest to believe.

When he reached the soldiers’ camp, night had already fallen. It wasn’t hard to find Narumi’s body — they’d just tossed it by the roadside. Standing over him, Sojo stared down, not blinking. Narumi still looked almost alive. His eyes were rolled back, the blood on his head and under his nose long dried, his skin pale, wrong, as if any second he might blink, sit up, laugh awkwardly, and say, oh, how embarrassing, I messed up! That was just like Narumi. But he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Narumi was dead.

And still Sojo couldn’t cry, though that was exactly what he should have done. Wasn’t he sad? Of course, he was. Furious. Devastated. But he couldn’t even scream. Finally, he glanced toward the camp, then climbed down into the ditch and began to dig with his hands. If he couldn’t cry, then at least he would give Narumi a proper burial — not let crows or scavengers tear him apart. Everything hurt, and he felt like collapsing, but he didn’t stop. That would’ve been unfair to Narumi. It was the right thing to do. Probably…

Why can’t I cry? What’s wrong with me?

I hate Tsuneki. I’ll kill him. Bastard. Narumi died because of him.

But how can I kill someone?

Because of him, Narumi’s dead. Remember what the swordsman told you. Finish what you start. Once you choose your path, follow it till the end.

Scorched earth.

Sojo flinched when he heard footsteps nearby, then squinted as a flashlight hit his face — just for a second, before the beam dropped. A soldier stood there, pale, strange circular tattoos beneath his eyes — a sorcerer, Sojo guessed. So he’s going to kill me, too? But Sojo didn’t care anymore. He just looked at him, empty, too drained even for anger.

“You came to bury your friend?” the soldier asked.

Sojo didn’t answer. What did it matter to him?

“Without a shovel, you’ll be here for hours,” the man said, and still Sojo stayed silent, digging. “Let me help you.”

He really was a sorcerer. The soldier pulled Sojo aside and pointed toward the ditch. Suddenly, hands rose from the ground — like his own hands, it looked like — and gently wrapped around Narumi’s body, like an adult’s final apology to a murdered child. Slowly, they sank back into the soil, covering him completely, leaving nothing behind.

And still… Sojo couldn’t cry.

Something had broken inside him.

“You want something from the camp? Food, maybe?” the soldier offered.

“No,” Sojo muttered, getting to his feet. He should have thanked the man. But soldiers were the ones who killed Narumi — maybe not this one, but all the same.

He just turned away silently, thinking — where do I go now? I can’t go back to Tsuneki yet, but I will. I’ll kill him. But for now, I’ve got nowhere. The soldier was still talking, but Sojo wasn’t listening; he was just trying to figure out where to rest until he felt better. He could go to Chiyoko. She liked him… but she lived far, and she had her own problems. Closer were the twins. Yes — the twins! They had a house. They were weird, too. They wouldn’t care. Yes… that would work. He took his first step, then turned when the soldier behind him grabbed his arm again. Confused, Sojo looked down at the canteen the man handed him.

“Drink,” the soldier ordered. “You’re burning up. You need water. You shouldn’t be running around like this. Listen, I could talk to our medic, and—”

Sojo didn’t let him finish. He drained the canteen, dropped it to the ground, and bolted — running as fast as his aching body allowed, not wanting to stay a second longer near the place where Narumi had died. He didn’t look back. Didn’t stop. Lights blurred past him, unseen. He had to keep running — before the pain became too much. Before his body gave out. He had to reach the twins. And then…

… he would kill Tsuneki.

After he smashed the boy’s head with the brick, Sojo, to his own surprise, didn’t feel the catharsis he had so long desired. Only disgust that his hands were now covered in blood.

There must’ve been something wrong with him. Some inner defect. He couldn’t explain otherwise why he felt nothing after Narumi’s death or after killing Tsuneki. What a pity. Such a pity… But after what he’d done, there was no going back. It would’ve been good to stay with the twins, to really end up somewhere where some adults actually cared about him, but that could cause them trouble, and he didn’t want to drag them into his mess. So, right after Tsuneki stopped moving, Sojo threw the brick away and slowly walked off from the station along the railway tracks.

The train still couldn’t be heard. And even if it was coming, he couldn’t see it. Fine, then. If it hit him, at least it would make things easier for everyone else.

But even the train didn’t come for him, and he just kept walking forward, all the way to the city. His legs carried him on their own, and strangely, he started to feel lighter. There was no pain, no heat, no hunger — as if everything was fine. It’s the final surge of strength before oblivion, something whispered in his head. You’ve seen those children before — the ones who were sick for a long time, who stood up one last time, and then died the next day. You’ll die too, because you’ve seen something forbidden to ordinary people. You saw the Sword Saint — who wasn’t a hero at all, but a monster, just like your enemies.

Was that right?

But Rokuhira Kunishige had chosen him… so that must’ve been the meaning he’d forged into the blade: total destruction. Scorched earth. So, the enchanted swords weren’t about salvation at all — they were about ruin. Then, if Sojo wanted to follow the Sword Saint’s advice, he’d done the right thing. He had taken the stone in his hands. Connections were about sticks and ropes, and he had struck first, because there was no place for ropes in war. So Tsuneki deserved to die.

The farther he walked, the quicker the euphoria faded, replaced by simple exhaustion. By the time he reached the city, he barely had the strength to drag his legs, but he still pressed on. Truth be told, Sojo wasn’t really watching where he was going. His legs moved by themselves, and he was ready to surrender to fate, but when he finally raised his head, he realized the road had brought him to the New Yoshiwara district. Chiyoko… right. Chiyoko should be here. He had to say goodbye, so she wouldn’t wait for him.

Gathering the last of his strength, he straightened his back, reached the small house where she lived, and knocked on the door, feeling the darkness closing in around his eyes. The heat was back — like he’d been shut inside an oven. Breathing grew harder. Come on, open up, something whimpered inside him. Please.

When the door creaked open, he exhaled in relief and gave in to weakness. His legs buckled, and he fell, hearing, just before sinking into the dark, someone shouting — calling him by name.

Genichi, Genichi… Wake up, Genichi. Don’t die. What will I do without you?

Genichi…

Sojo drifted in the darkness for what felt like a long time. Maybe a minute, maybe an eternity. Nothing hurt. He felt light — lighter than he’d ever felt before. It was soft and warm, not too hot. Blissful. He didn’t want to leave that place, but the persistent voice kept calling his name, and he reluctantly followed it, away from the dark and toward the light, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Sakuragi above him, weeping, her face buried in her hands.

“Why must we suffer all this…? Why such punishment for us…?”

Sojo didn’t have the strength to call out to her. Everything blurred before his eyes, and truth be told, he could’ve easily drifted back into unconsciousness — but then it struck him that this wasn’t a dream. He had made it to Sakuragi. Which meant he was safe. He was alive.

It seemed she sensed he was awake, because she stopped wiping her tears and looked at him — only to start crying again.

“Genichi?”

He didn’t even have the strength to nod, so he just blinked.

“I was so afraid you’d die. You were out for days. Even the doctor said you might not make it — said you’d lost too much blood. You are such a fool, Genichi. Where did you even go to end up like this?”

Of course, he didn’t answer. Not just because he couldn’t — he didn’t want to tell her.

“Want some water?”

As it turned out, he had collapsed right on the doorstep, and as Sakuragi said, he hadn’t regained consciousness for several days. The old woman who owned the place had at first refused to do anything, but the girls who worked for her reminded her that in the winter, he’d stolen rations for them, so she eventually gave in and even let him use her own room. That’s where he was now, lying in the old woman’s soft bed. The room was cluttered with junk and trinkets, practically reeking of the miserly owner, but Sojo had no strength left to mock it. What mattered was that he was safe and that the fever had finally passed.

Luckily, there was no pain anymore. Maybe what the twins had said was true — maybe something inside him had died for good, the part that could still feel pain (or maybe he was just being dramatic, but his back really didn’t hurt). When he turned his head toward Sakuragi, she wiped away her tears with her sleeve, then moved closer and took his palm. Her hands were warm and soft. When she brushed the hair from his face, Sojo closed his eyes. Such a nice feeling.

“You poor thing. Your whole back is covered in cuts. Who could’ve done something so cruel to you?”

He didn’t answer. Just let himself relax as Sakuragi stroked his hair, and then slipped back into sleep again, this time calm and peaceful, because he wasn’t alone, and because there was, finally, someone who cared.

A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts, and he absently allowed the visitor to enter. Paperwork had become such a routine that he had almost forgotten how, in his youth, he’d thought of all office rats as idiots — people who willingly wasted their time on this kind of nonsense. Yet here he was, one of them. Of course, he had assistants, secretaries, and accountants who’d stayed on from the previous boss, but they couldn’t handle everything, so he had to sit up working late into the night. When the person entered the room, Sojo immediately sensed it wasn’t one of his men. The perfume gave it away — his guys never wore any, and this scent had a faint floral trace to it, not sweet but noticeable. When Sojo sharply lifted his gaze, however, he relaxed. It was the mercenary the twins had dragged in — the sorcerer with the mud puppets.

That soldier he had met many years ago.

As Sojo lowered the papers, the soldier hesitated by the door, as if unsure what to say or do — as if he himself didn’t quite know why he’d come — but then he found the words:

“Sorry for the intrusion. Sojo-san,” he said, rolling the unfamiliar name on his tongue as though testing its taste. “It’s a small quirk of mine. A kind of trauma.”

“What kind exactly?”

“Sometimes I think about the people I met during the war.”

Sojo never thought about them. He didn’t even think about Narumi anymore. Sometimes the memory just came to him — ah, right, there was Narumi, too… — but it didn’t matter. Time, as they said, belonged to the living. He had no time to think about the dead. That wouldn’t help business. So he just shrugged, not really understanding. Former soldiers probably had it worse, especially those who kept killing. Although some found in it a strange satisfaction, even catharsis, and that kept them from going insane. Everything was relative, after all. Sojo, for one, didn’t care in the slightest.

When he lit a cigarette, he offered one to the mercenary as well. The man sat down in the chair across the desk, somehow both tense and relaxed at once.

“The twins hired you?”

“They hired my partner. He’s a hound… I work as his backup.”

“Also a former soldier?”

“Younger, actually,” the mercenary smiled faintly. “Even than you. Around twenty-five. But he’s a sharp one — and his morals are even more flexible than those of our politicians.”

Wasn’t that a beautiful worldview? Some people could stand to learn from it.

“So you survived, then?... Perhaps I should apologize for barging in like this. And for bringing up that topic.”

Sojo took a long drag, exhaled a cloud of smoke right into the mercenary’s face, and smirked.

“Why should you? If it’s your quirk.”

The man didn’t answer, only narrowed his eyes slightly as if in agreement. They sat there, gazing at each other in complete silence, broken only by the steady ticking of the clock on the wall. After all, everything that needed to be said had already been said.

Tick.

Tock.

When Yura set the wide wooden chest on the table before him — its surface tightly bound with shimenawa — the memories rushed through Sojo’s mind like a whirlwind. Entranced, he stared at the sealed box where a very familiar blade lay at rest. It felt as though if he reached out — just brushed his fingers across it — he would once again find himself beside the Sword Saint, meeting that gaze once more. What would he say? Praise him? Be horrified? Say nothing at all?

Yura’s voice snapped him out of the storm of fevered thoughts, and Sojo blinked, looking at the head of the Hishaku, who brushed a speck of dust off the chest before leaning lazily back in his chair. It was the day after Sojo had been handed Kuregumo — only a few formalities remained to settle. Yura was one of those men who loved the sound of their own voice, and Sojo couldn’t really fault him for that; he himself knew the feeling well.

Still, his eyes drifted back to the box.

“This is…” Sojo began, but Yura nodded before he could finish.

He liked speaking with flourish, that bastard.

“The Shinuchi,” Yura said. “We’ll sell it at the Rakuzaichi auction. Under your name, of course… I just wanted to show it to you so we could sort out the formalities — make sure no one accuses me of handing over a fake to Sazanami Kyora under your credentials. You can confirm it’s the real sword, though…” a smirk tugged at his lips. “…that might be a little difficult.”

“Why the box?”

“The heads of the Kamunabi sealed it years ago.”

Knowing Yura, he had probably already figured out a way to unseal it and how to extract the blade trapped within, like Schrödinger’s cat, but Sojo wasn’t particularly interested. Perhaps he would have liked to see the sword… yet why flashed through his mind. What would he see? It wasn’t a weapon he dared to touch. Relics weren’t meant to be handled. A common blade was made to kill, but the Shinuchi — that was a sword that could strike down a god. He wasn’t ready for something like that. All he could do was look at it from afar, admire it…

Sweat dampened the back of his shirt, and Sojo couldn’t explain why. Just being in the same room with the box made the air feel heavier.

Damn. It was stifling in here.

He had to keep his composure, so he coughed and tugged at his collar. Yura’s eyes seemed to devour his every move.

“And you’re just going to sell it?” Sojo asked. “The government dogs will just buy it back. What the hell was the point of stealing it, then?”

“Rokuhira hid the sword from the Kamunabi,” Yura said coolly. “They wouldn’t have gotten it any other way.”

“And what’s the point of that?”

“The point,” Yura smiled that graceful, insincere smile again, “always exists. But that’s my concern, not yours. Believe me, there’s nothing in it for you.”

“Right, but you’re paying me for research.”

“That’s part of the preparation,” Yura said, spreading his hands. “You’ll see. There’s no need to rush the unveiling of every secret just yet. Besides, it’s risky. Who knows how things will end?”

He laughed frivolously — a sound too casual to be genuine. There was calculation even in that laughter, but Sojo ignored it; his gaze was still fixed on the box before him, the one that seemed to beckon him closer. Just one motion, and he could touch it. Just one…

But Sojo didn’t move. He kept staring, and beneath his shirt — beneath his skin itself — something seemed to stir, faintly resonating.

For a while, Jiro stared up at the ceiling, thinking over what he’d just heard.

Well, to put it briefly, it was fucked up beyond belief.

He’d always known Sojo had seen something horrific, something that had left that mess of scars across his back, but he’d never imagined it had anything to do with one of the enchanted blades — let alone one that had belonged to a national hero. That, at least, explained why, when they’d met again years later and gotten obsessed with collecting those stupid swordsman cards, Sojo kept giving them every single one featuring the Sword Saint. Had he really carried that kind of nightmare inside him for so long? No wonder he’d turned out the way he had — mad, like a dog. After something like that, what else could you become? There were only two options: drink yourself into oblivion, or lose your damn mind.

He and his brother exchanged a critical glance while the boss stared pensively at his pack of cigarettes. You could tell he was two seconds away from ignoring Noriko-san’s orders and lighting up again.

“Why didn’t you ever tell us before?” Jiro asked.

Sojo tore his gaze from the cigarettes and looked at him absently.

“What? Why the hell would I?”

“Man, are you seriously asking that?”

“Sometimes I doubt you’re actually that smart,” Ichiro said dryly, and Jiro nodded in emphatic agreement.

“We’re your buddies! And you just kept it all bottled up!”

The boss’s face twisted like he’d just heard the weirdest thing in the world — it made him look oddly funny. Not embarrassed, exactly, just confused. And dumb. Jiro wasn’t sure he’d ever seen him look quite that dumb before.

“Are you idiots?” excellent question, really. “I didn’t bottle up anything. It happened eighteen years ago! That’s more than half a lifetime. I’ve forgotten most of it — I only remembered while I was talking. It’s not… anything special,” Sojo waved the thought off lightly, then turned his gaze to the horizon, where Tokyo gleamed in the distance. Once, that had all been ruins; now it was a shining metropolis. “Anyway, the only thing you didn’t know was the part about the Shinuchi… Come on, there’s really nothing interesting about it.”

“I dunno, man,” Jiro muttered. “The fact that you lost your sanity after meeting an enchanted blade seems pretty interesting to me.”

“I didn’t lose my sanity,” Sojo growled, irritation bleeding into his voice, but when the twins shot him a knowing look, he seemed to falter. “I mean… I was already like that, you know.”

No, Jiro thought, it was that damn incident that made you the Sojo Genichi we know now. Before that, you might’ve had a chance at being normal, even if the war had broken everyone in its own way. If Narumi had lived, maybe things would’ve been different. But Narumi died, and the Sword Saint took his place. And all those habits — his conviction that there was only one right path, the way he saw the enchanted swords as nothing but instruments of slaughter, even though the twins knew better that the swordsmen had been saviors as much as butchers — how could anyone deny that? All of it was proof that something inside him had snapped right then. Even his appearance had started to mirror the Sword Saint’s — or at least, what the statues showed.

It explained so much.

So much.

Maybe, Jiro thought, you never really wanted to surpass Rokuhira Kunishige at all. Maybe you just wanted to prove to yourself that you were smarter than the man who’d created the weapon that broke the greatest swordsman alive — and then broke you, too.

But he and Ichiro decided to spare Sojo’s feelings. They sighed and sat down on either side of him. The boss immediately got suspicious and tried to make a break for it, but the twins grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back into his seat. They stayed like that, still as statues.

The boss was a patient man, but not today. Before long, he started squirming and whining.

“Ughhhh! I hate being pitied. Get lost.”

“What did you do after the war — right after we split up?” Jiro cut through his complaining, catching him off guard.

“What do you mean?”

“You disappeared until the second time we met. You never said where you went.”

“Because there’s nothing to tell!” the boss groaned theatrically. He really should’ve gone into acting — he’d have been perfect for it. Still, what was he hiding? “I spent the winter with one old lady who ran a bathhouse. Wandered around all summer, and by autumn, I joined a gang. That’s it.”

Ichiro was the first to burst out laughing.

“Seriously? An old lady with a bathhouse?”

“What the hell’s wrong with an old lady with a bathhouse, you bastard?”

“Sojo Genichi,” Jiro said with mock solemnity, “you are the funniest man I have ever met. You do realize that, right?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me! You think I like hot water because of that? You two are idiots.”

The brothers patted him sympathetically on the back, saying nothing more.

And the three of them sat there, staring off into the distance — at the city that never slept, where something within them had closed its eyes forever: their dreams.

Chapter Text

After the war ended and victory was finally declared, Sojo suddenly disappeared; the twins searched for him all over the temple with Fushimi, but couldn’t find him. That’s when Jiro realized — he must have decided to leave by himself. Too bad. He would have tried to convince him to stay with them and Grandfather — it would’ve been good for all four of them. But maybe it was better this way for Sojo — something had clearly gone wrong with him after he crawled to them barely alive. Sometimes solitude helped. It was one of those extremely wise lines from some book, but Jiro believed that Sojo was the kind of person who could really come to a decision when alone. Although, as he thought later, it was more likely that Sojo had gone back to the armorer in New Yoshiwara — after all, everyone evacuated had returned to the capital — and was working for him. Sakuragi clearly adored him, so he probably stayed with her. Maybe they decided to make him a debt collector. He was still a good fighter, and not exactly pleasant — perfect for that role. Maybe he combined it with living with that old lady in the bathhouse.

A couple of days after the victory was declared, some of Grandfather’s people came to pick them up, promising to take them home. Their father had died; they barely remembered him, so they weren’t too upset, although Fushimi mourned for them. They said their goodbyes for a long time, promising to be a menace if he ever actually went to work for the Kamunabi — that was the agreement, though everyone knew they’d probably never meet again. Writing letters was pointless since Fushimi might soon be transferred somewhere else — or maybe not, because the head priest was clearly glad to help the children. But the twins hardly cared about any of that.

They lived with Grandfather for another four years, until they turned fifteen; then they returned with him to the capital, attended the local school, often skipped classes, and occasionally got into fights. The country was slowly rising from the ashes before their eyes. But something had changed. Now they didn’t need to hide their talent, for instance. The boys in their class — they were the infamous troublemakers, full of bullies and failing students — were just thrilled. On TV, they frequently explained sorcery to the public as a novelty, and when similar lessons were held at school, they were often asked to demonstrate their skills to show it was safe, and there was no need to fear it.

Funny, of course, because they used their powers in fights…

Still, life brought them into contact with Sojo again: as mentioned, this happened when they were fifteen, four years after the war ended. Their grandfather could no longer fully support them, and now their aunt — who mostly just brought them food — was watching over them (including the old man she had taken in). They cleaned the house themselves and were left to their own devices; their aunt mostly dealt with paperwork and matters requiring an adult. She did come by to help with household affairs, but not as often as a proper guardian should. The twins didn’t mind — they could skip school if they wanted, and no one noticed. The teachers had long since given up on them, mostly just asking that they not cause chaos in class.

One rainy day, after a sudden urge to go to school, they went out for a walk, intending to blow their pocket money at a pachinko parlor that let minors in. They lingered on the doorstep, looking at a notice about a lost dog. For some reason, Jiro's brother always got stirred up when he saw something like that, and they could spend hours roaming the streets looking for the lost pet, but Jiro himself didn’t care about such things.

“I wanted to go photograph birds by the river,” he admitted, while Ichiro scanned the poster again.

“But the dog!”

“You and your damn dogs are killing me. I want to photograph birds!”

“Are you a nerd or what?”

They argued, and Jiro sighed, looking at the cheap camera in his hands. Photography was the only hobby that made him behave well — at least that’s how the teachers running the photo club saw it. Jiro hadn’t signed up formally; he had just dropped by once on a whim because there was a cute girl there. But he liked watching the other kids exchange pictures of dead insects. Gross! Delightful. At first, they were wary of him, but Jiro sincerely promised not to break anything — though he did break some guy’s nose once, the one who was in the way of photographing the river. After that, their bond strengthened.

Jiro turned when he heard the screech of brakes behind him. Opposite the pachinko parlor was a small pub, and a luxury car — like their grandfather’s — stopped in front. These days, such cars were mostly driven by retired military men. Someone got out and opened an umbrella, and then a frail old man in sunglasses — older than their grandfather — climbed out of the car. A few others helped him fully step out and guided him by the hand to the door while the first person — a tall, thin young man — held the umbrella over him. It would’ve been a boring scene if Jiro hadn’t realized that the young man was a very familiar acquaintance.

His hand reached for the camera.

“Hey! Look, isn’t that Genichi?”

Ichiro glanced away from the lost dog poster, eyes widening.

They didn’t get a good look at the young man — whether it was really Sojo — because he disappeared behind the frail old man inside. They definitely wouldn’t have been allowed in, but at least they had a photo! That was something. It meant they could ask questions of someone who seemed to know everything.

Of course, they went to Grandfather. He looked at the developed photo with disdain, then handed it back to Jiro. Grandfather now lived in their aunt’s house, and she was bustling in the kitchen, happy the nephews had stopped by. The old man rarely went out, mostly walking from the veranda to the inner courtyard, but his sharp mind was intact.

“That’s Iwakura. An underground dealer… mostly trades information, but could do anything. Even when sorcery was hidden, he still knew if someone had it — including me. A rotten dog… I thought he’d retired,” he rubbed his chin and sighed heavily. “No wonder he took your friend under his wing. He always had a thing about youth, because he’s already old shit. And for other reasons too… What? Better not deal with him.”

“Nah,” the twins shrugged. “We were just curious.”

Not that they had a solid reason to look for Sojo, but it was nice that they crossed paths, and everything seemed fine; if you could call it that — apparently, he never went to a normal school and was already working underground. Grandfather had forbidden the twins from going there until they finished school. But they were curious, and they started visiting the pachinko parlor more often. The owner wasn’t thrilled about having such a “time bomb” nearby — they were teenagers, and although the law wasn’t strictly enforced after the war, it still existed — but he agreed to let them in if they helped clean.

They decided to be honest about why they were there, and it seemed to ease the owner. He, a middle-aged man, rubbed the back of his neck, then glanced at the pub across the street.

“Hmm, Iwakura-san — he’s… sometimes like a rep player. Good at everything. That’s why I don’t let him into my pachinko parlor; he’s a real crook,” he chuckled weakly. Jiro sensed a story behind that. “Your friend hangs out with him?”

“Yep, a buddy. Met him at the orphanage during the war.”

“Ah, if he’s from the orphans, that makes sense… He comes here often, so don’t worry,” the owner lit a cigarette. When the twins asked for cigarettes too, he wagged a finger. “No-no. Don’t smoke. That’s my advice. It's so expensive…”

In the end, the owner was right. A couple of days later, the old man appeared again, once more with his young protege.

Strange. So Sojo worked for him? Or was there another reason? He had always been so independent… Questions kept piling up, but there were no proper answers, which annoyed Jiro, who liked specifics, not this nonsense. But this time, he decided not to wait. When Sojo got out and opened the car door for the old man, Jiro ran to the entrance of the pachinko parlor and whistled loudly. When Sojo glanced at him, he waved with his hand. The old man and the others looked disapprovingly, but surprise was written across Sojo’s face. He said something to the old man, who waved it off and went inside, while his young protege dashed across the street toward Jiro.

As he got closer, it was clear he’d grown taller than the twins, his hair now reaching his shoulder blades, dressed better — in a clean shirt. In short, he looked incredible — not the snotty kid they’d tussled with in the field. But apparently Sojo himself didn’t know why he’d approached; he couldn’t force himself to say anything, and they just stared at each other, Jiro at Sojo.

Silence hung until Ichiro appeared and ran up.

“Genichi! You bastard, we’ve been looking for you forever! And here you are!”

“Where have you been?” Jiro asked, and Sojo looked at them strangely.

“Living? Working?”

“And what about school?”

“What school?” his face instantly twisted. He was no longer a child; now even his funny, silly expressions had something charming about them. “Are you stupid? I don’t have time for that. And Iwakura-san teaches me sometimes.”

“What happened to you then?”

The old friend didn’t look bad, but Jiro immediately noticed that his knuckles were damaged, leaving scars on his hands. He still radiated that lone-wolf aura, even if he talked more than before, and for some reason, Jiro didn’t like it, though he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what made him uneasy. So he simply scanned Sojo from head to toe, and Sojo, clearly deciding that this inspection annoyed him, chose to ask the question that was on his mind himself:

“Still with the old man?”

“You’d better come with us,” Jiro admitted, and Sojo waved him off.

“Why? Your grandfather can’t stand freeloaders.”

“You’re not a freeloader, Genichi. Grandpa really worried about you,” Jiro wanted to say that. But Sojo was the kind of person who trusted only himself, and no matter what anyone said, he would continue listening only to his own judgment. It was sad. But what could you do? Some people… were just like that. First Narumi died, and then something else happened. And that’s how Sojo Genichi, standing in front of Jiro, was born.

So he simply shook his head and exchanged quick glances with his brother. They both understood perfectly. Instead of giving a lecture, he just demanded Sojo’s phone, and when Sojo handed it over with a surprised look — a simple flip phone — Jiro punched in their numbers and then saved Sojo’s number for himself.

“If you ever think about running off… we live alone now. You can stay with us. Okay? I’m serious.”

“Worried about me?”

The joke didn’t land, and Sojo’s smile faded.

“If anything happens — call.”

The conversation stalled after that, and they just stood silently beside him. And yet, things could have been different. If the evacuation had never happened and they had stayed with their grandfather, maybe Sojo would’ve grown attached to him and ended up staying with them. And he wouldn’t have had to kill that boy with a stone. Maybe that would have been better for his peace of mind. But he wasn’t the type to be that thoughtful; he could only guess how things might have turned out. So when a man in black sunglasses emerged from the pub and whistled, Sojo waved to them and hurried inside, while Jiro followed him with his eyes, pondering how a future where everything was fine might have unfolded. He watched as the frail old man met him at the doorway, grabbed him by the chin to scold him, and Sojo snapped back. Then they disappeared inside, and Jiro turned away.

No one ever gets what they want.

“Remember when you said to call you if I ran into trouble?..”

Sojo’s voice was slow and sweet, like molasses. With age, it had developed into a pleasant, velvety baritone.

Jiro wanted to say — fuck you, you damn asshole. It was 2 A.M. in the morning. They had just returned with Ichiro from a job given by the foreman, finally joining the group their grandfather had recommended them to, but starting at the bottom to get the full taste of that life and gain experience (and it was more honest that way). They saw Sojo occasionally after that meeting, but not as often as they could have; he still worked for Iwakura as his errand boy. He was one of those kids who grew up fast, and at some point had completely outgrown them, though still a skinny runt, and slowly nature was putting things back in order.

The fact that he called at that time in the morning was odd. They sometimes crossed paths… mostly on days when the twins skipped school. Sometimes they followed him while he delivered documents, and sometimes they just watched him beat someone down. Sojo did that masterfully. When he raised his fist, something seemed to change in his gaze, and a beast awoke. That Sojo was someone Jiro wanted to avoid, but he found something captivating about watching him knock out someone’s teeth or break fingers. At those moments, all the cruelty awoke, and he saw before him… someone terrifying, yet…

Three years had passed.

And now he, remembering an old promise, was calling to ask for help.

“What happened?”

“Long story… I’ll need a ride from you. Get there and wait, okay? As soon as possible!”

Ichiro, also awakened by the sudden call, sleepily looked at his brother. They were still in their apartment but hurriedly dressing, sensing something bad. Jiro grabbed the keys to the car — not their car, but the foreman’s van, which he had entrusted to the twins because they were good drivers and mostly handled the work it was needed for — and, throwing on his jacket, said:

“Hope you didn’t mess anything up there?”

Sojo just laughed lightly and hung up.

What had that damn dog gotten himself into this time? And he was laughing too! Well, they were friends, so it wouldn’t be right to leave him, though Jiro had a bad feeling about what awaited them.

He began to suspect he was right when he pulled the van up to the windows of a small building, where, as he knew, the office of that dry old man, Iwakura, was located. That old guy was probably close to a hundred years old… But he was clearly a hidden sorcerer, which made him look younger, though still dry as a twig! While Ichiro lit a cigarette, Jiro lazily looked around, trying to figure out why Sojo had told them to come not just here, but this close, when suddenly a crash came from inside, followed by the sound of breaking glass. Something heavy fell on the van’s roof, then a familiar voice shouted:

“Go, go, go!”

Startled, he hit the gas, and the van lunged forward.

Something scraped above them, then a shaggy head appeared in the side window. Sojo didn’t seem to care that something behind them was squealing, and it seemed the chase had begun. He smirked.

“Yo.”

“Are you crazy?!” Jiro felt the noise behind them getting too loud. Ichiro leaned out the other side, gesturing to speed up. “What the hell did you do?!”

“Well… we had a little disagreement with the old man…”

“Oh god,” Ichiro went pale instantly. “Don’t tell me you murdered Iwakura.”

“That doesn’t matter… Hey, listen! You got an extra pair of pants? It’s kind of chilly here.”

This bastard — not only did he take out his (former) boss, but he climbed out the window in nothing but his skin! And now he was riding naked on the roof! Bastard! God, if the police see this — they’re done for!

“Cover yourself!”

“Why should I be ashamed?”

“Cover yourself, you damn ass!”

“What’s wrong with my ass?”

When Jiro made a sharp turn, Sojo lifted his head and laughed out loud, and even at this speed, it was audible. Bastard! He turned… this into a circus!

They ended up chasing through the city to shake off any tails. Later, they would have to repaint the van and change the plates so they wouldn’t be found again… Fortunately, along the way, the culprit had the sense to climb inside and hide his wonderful ass from the entire city, and Jiro listened to his incredible, idiotic stories about what it was like to sit naked on the roof of a speeding van. Luckily, there was a rag inside the van, usually used to cover crates at night, so there was something to cover the naked sight.

They successfully escaped to one of the hills just outside the city. Dawn was breaking, and the sun threatened to appear over the horizon. Stopping in an empty parking lot at such an early hour, Jiro finally caught his breath and cursed the friend silently for such a drift, then looked back, but Sojo had already climbed out of the van. He walked barefoot to the fence and leaned against it, and when the twins joined him, he turned to them. In the pre-dawn light, the tips of his hair seemed to glow. It would have been a beautiful sight if his face and hands weren’t covered in blood — they looked black.

Jiro pulled out a pack of cigarettes and shared them. The three of them lit up.

“Spill it. What did you do in there?”

He remembered how years ago Sojo had beaten Tsuneki with a stone. Had he lost it again? That day, they could have guessed this was coming. The look, the behavior. As if someone had tightened a string, ready to snap. But this time, Sojo looked carefree, as if nothing serious had happened.

“Iwakura-san got too impudent with his hands, so I killed him.”

“He tried to drag you into bed?…”

Ah, so that’s why he was naked… And he didn’t grab pants? Damn, did he leave the phone there too?! While Jiro wondered if this would bring trouble, Sojo’s expression darkened, as if the answer were obvious.

“Why do you think they keep young boys close? Yeah, that’s right,” he flicked ash to the ground. “Anyway, I’ve already learned everything I needed from him, and all his contacts know me. And I stole all his accounting books,” Sojo cheered. “You can do something with this. Even start your own business! Imagine!.. Sojo Genichi — the legend of the underground market!” he spread his arms wide and gestured toward the city as if trying to embrace it and squeeze it into a fist. “Sounds awesome!”

The twins exchanged uneasy glances.

“Are you sure anyone will want to work with you after you offed the old man? They might think you’re unreliable or something.”

When the smile on Sojo’s face took on a threatening edge — more like a snarl — Jiro felt a little nervous.

“You don’t need to worry about that. I’ve already buttered up a lot of people, and Iwakura has been sitting on the top of the black market too long. Everyone’s tired of his ton of dirt. People hate it when someone knows too much about them. Many will actually be glad to take me under their wing… and that’s not just empty confidence. I’ll figure something out. Maybe start a legal business.”

“Legal?”

It even sounded insane, but Sojo shrugged.

“Something like logistics. I’ll take any cargo. Now that I’ve got plenty of contacts, it won’t be a problem. Then I’ll negotiate with suppliers myself and decide who gets what. Maybe I’ll go into trade. It’s not that hard if you’ve got a way with words.”

“You sure about that?”

“Are you worried about me?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

Sojo laughed out loud.

“Hilarious! Alright, don’t worry! Everything’s fine. If anything, I’ll open a bathhouse. That’s something I’ve got the energy for! But that’s for tomorrow,” he yawned widely and leaned his shoulder against Jiro. Smoke continued curling from the cigarette between his teeth. “I’ll take care of the rest of the guys and get my stuff. But for now… can I crash at your place tonight? I’m so damn tired,” his voice dropped unexpectedly. “I’ll just fall over from exhaustion.”

Killed his boss, sat naked on a roof during a chase… What kind of life did Sojo Genichi have?

How could they possibly say no?

The next day, the twins managed to get permission to leave, claiming that someone had been killed near their home and the police were swarming, making their van look suspicious (not really a lie, though their place wasn’t that close). It was better to hide for now and pretend to be ordinary citizens, which the foreman reluctantly agreed to. Sojo went to shower, saying he wanted to wash the blood off everywhere it had splattered. When he turned, Jiro noticed the butterfly tattoo — now actually inked on his skin. It didn’t look silly anymore; it was terrifying, as if the night itself were trying to swallow him.

The bed was already made, because they’d jumped on this idiot in a rush and hadn’t even tidied up properly, but like old times, the twins pulled the mattresses together to make more space. Damn. They’d only driven around the city a bit, and Jiro was exhausted like a mule. Not surprising…

He glanced at Sojo without much approval when he came out of the shower, wearing one of the twins’ clothes. Sojo shamelessly climbed into the middle of the newly made bed, and the twins surrounded him. Really. Just like childhood. Only now, nobody was dying (because some had already died). Sojo's hair smelled of soap.

“You’re so shaggy. You should get a haircut.”

“Maybe later… someday…”

His friend buried his nose in Jiro’s collar, then relaxed and huffed petulantly:

“Close the curtains, it’s getting too bright.”

He fell asleep quickly, and with him — Ichiro. And, like years ago, Jiro remained the only one unable to sleep. He just stared at Sojo, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing in his neck, thinking — this is how the path to hell is paved. But who am I not to follow a friend?

Sojo didn’t know the Blacksmith’s real name, and even if the man had told him, he didn’t remember. He met him that autumn, the fifth year after the war ended, when he was seventeen. By that time, he no longer looked like an awkward teenager, though other subordinates working for Iwakura would say he still looked youthful, and because of that, they somewhat dismissed his opinions — though, overall, they were lenient. Of course, that annoyed Sojo, but he knew how to separate the wheat from the chaff, so he ignored it, just as he ignored anything that didn’t matter. The youth worked well only in contact with Iwakura, and at that moment, he was the only one worth flattering.

Sometimes Sojo did side jobs to earn a little money; mostly for those in good terms with Iwakura, so he wouldn’t be suspected of espionage — though he could have been. Usually, he went to old acquaintances for trivial tasks: deliver documents somewhere, fetch something, rough someone up… The armourer, whom Sojo had known since the war, called on him regularly. He had changed little since then, except for dyeing his hair better, but he was still a scrawny man of indeterminate age with a prosthetic leg. Precisely because of that prosthetic, he mainly relied on Sojo’s services, since the boy asked for little, and they trusted each other.

That day, the weather was awful: rain poured down like buckets, and to reach the armourer, who lived on the outskirts of a seedy district, Sojo had to struggle. The man greeted him without much enthusiasm; fortunately, there was no pretty girl hiding behind a curtain, with whom he might have been fooling around — something Sojo had been curiously tempted to peek at in his younger years, but the armourer’s favorite girl always sensed it and smacked him on the neck. The armourer looked miserable, and when Sojo asked why he wasn’t his usual self, he grumbled:

“Leg hurts from the weather change,” he tapped the knee where the prosthetic began. “Bloody hell, I took painkillers, and it still doesn’t work.”

He let Sojo inside and allowed him to dry his clothes. Sojo tossed his shirt on the radiator, then sat at the kitchen table where the armourer brewed him cheap instant coffee.

His name was Iwanishi, but few used it, having gotten used to his nickname — and he didn’t seem to mind.

“Seriously?”

“And your back doesn’t hurt?” the armourer snapped, and Sojo snorted.

“Why would it?”

“Yeah, but I remember poor Chiyoko worrying about you. Running around, couldn’t find a moment’s peace. Things like that don’t just go away!” he sighed, staring into the mug of cheap coffee, then glanced at Sojo. “You should put on some muscle. You’re so skinny, it hurts to look at you. What does Iwakura feed you? Does he even feed you? You should’ve stayed with Chiyoko. She’d have taken care of you, for sure.”

“Oh, here we go with the nagging again…”

Every time, the same thing!

But it was time to get down to business. While his clothes dried and he sipped coffee, the armourer hobbled to his workbench, rummaged around, and brought out a small box tightly wrapped in paper. Sojo was curious what was inside, but knew better than to pry where he wasn’t invited. He simply watched expectantly, hoping the armourer would reveal the secret. Sometimes he spoke of his merchandise, sometimes he remained silent — then it was something secret. This time, thankfully, he didn’t hide it and tapped the box with his finger.

“Someone brought this to me recently… They say it’s a tiny fragment of the datenseki.”

A shiver ran down Sojo’s spine, and he struggled to look away from the box.

“Datenseki, huh?”

“There’s a blacksmith interested in seeing the metal. But I told him right away — it’s toxic crap. Better not touch it,” the armourer said, lighting a cigarette, eyes critically on the box. Then he looked at Sojo, who deliberately avoided the box. “You’ll take it to him? He’s grumpy, but not a bad guy. I can barely get there myself, and I don’t trust other couriers.”

That shouldn’t end badly… especially if Sojo didn’t touch the stone inside. He hesitated a moment, then nodded.

For parting, the armourer even handed him an umbrella, insisting he return it afterward. The blacksmith’s address wasn’t far, so Sojo walked there. Of course, he got soaked again — the wind rose, and it was easier to go without the umbrella — but he kept the box dry. When he arrived at the small workshop tucked deep in an unfamiliar artisan district, he rapped on the door, hoping they’d let him in quickly so he could leave. Evening was coming, and it was getting colder. A hot bath at home would’ve been perfect, but that was only at Iwakura’s, and he only allowed its use after work at night, when it was too late to go home… Well, someday he’d get himself a better apartment and soak in hot water as long as he wanted!

Lost in these pleasant thoughts, he didn’t notice footsteps behind the door until it suddenly swung open. A man with a sharply unfriendly look stared at him — definitely not welcoming — and Sojo decided it was time to retreat. The man looked… well, he was the man for sure. Short black hair, almond-shaped eyes, a weird little beard… Damn, he realized suddenly, he resembled Rokuhira Kunishige from all those books. And a blacksmith… But this was definitely not Rokuhira Kunishige, if only because Rokuhira hadn’t even turned thirty, while this man was clearly over forty. He took the box and handed it to its owner.

“From Iwanishi.”

“Right,” the man’s voice showed no interest whatsoever. “Thanks.”

Thunder rumbled, and Sojo looked up with no pleasure. Great, now a full-on storm, and he was already wet. Damn it. He tossed the box to the man and decided he and the umbrella would fight the wind — but then he heard a call:

“You work for him?”

“Well… kind of,” Sojo turned and gave the man a skeptical look. “Why?”

“How old are you?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

He tensed. Questions like that never led to anything good. Yet the man’s face darkened.

“No, I’m just surprised that Iwanishi sent a kid to deliver something in this damn weather. You could catch a cold. You can wait inside… and dry your clothes.”

Oh, how kind everyone was today! Sojo thought: if luck was already on his side, maybe it was worth trying it in a few more ways. He stepped onto the threshold, pulling off his soaking sneakers, then looked the man straight in the eyes, hands clasped behind his back, trying to appear as friendly as possible. His face wasn’t particularly cute, but he knew how to play along when needed.

“Could I… take a shower here?”

The man gave him a quick look, then sighed. Surely he was cursing Iwanishi in his mind, thinking, there goes sending the poor orphan out… If only he knew.

“You can even sit in the bath,” the man said.

Sojo barely restrained himself from baring his teeth in a grin.

What luck! The storm only intensified, the radio even issued a hurricane warning, and Sojo was sitting in a hot bath, legs draped over the edge, doing nothing but enjoying the beautiful warm water. Bliss! He could have stayed there for hours, maybe even fallen asleep, but that would’ve been disrespectful to the house owner, so he had to get out. Dressing in wet clothes was disgusting, but the blacksmith even provided him with a change of clothes. That was when Sojo began to suspect something.

“You’re… very kind. Want something? I can…”

He didn’t finish, because the man cut him off abruptly:

“I don’t like seeing abandoned children.”

Ah, so he was one of the noble sort. Those who pitied others. Some people had that quirk, needing to play the hero for the helpless and the poor. On the one hand, pity was irritating; on the other, Sojo knew how to use it for his advantage. For instance, now! No wonder the man instantly recognized a stray kid, Iwanishi probably didn’t hire anyone else. Maybe someone from their old gang worked for him, they knew each other remotely… Honestly, Sojo didn’t want to know.

He stepped out to the host; the man was staring out the window at the lightning outside. Beautiful. Sojo liked storms, the smell of petrichor…

He hesitated.

“What now?”

“If you don’t steal anything, I’ll feed you breakfast tomorrow,” the man said, turning from the window and moving further into the house. “You can rest. But don’t steal, please. Otherwise, I’ll have to tell Iwanishi, and he’s strict with thieves. Right now… I need to work.”

“In the forge?!” Sojo asked warily, and the man nodded absentmindedly. “Can I… look?”

“… why?”

The man clearly bristled. No way. Sojo simply had to witness that craftsmanship with his own eyes! He made the most sincere face he could and, pressing his hand to his chest, declared:

“I’m a big fan! I’d love to make something like that, you know? Like Rokuhira Kunishige!..”

He chatted a bit more for formality, so enthusiastically that the blacksmith fell for it. Perhaps it wasn’t even a lie. Sometimes Sojo wasn’t sure how to interpret his own desire… To surpass. That sounded great. To create a weapon equal in power to an enchanted blade!.. That would be the goal. But first, he had to understand all the nuances, including the chemical properties of metals. And datenseki… His gaze flicked to the box on the table. That could wait. He needed to start with the basics.

Graciously, the blacksmith allowed him to watch the process.

It was unbearably hot in the workshop, but the spectacle made it worth enduring. Sparks flew into the air, the hammer struck the metal with a ringing sound… Damn, just watching gave him goosebumps! Sojo was so absorbed that he completely lost track of time. The rain outside only grew heavier, but here in the workshop, it was dry and blazing hot. Here, flame reigned.

After several hours, the blacksmith finally finished. Sweat streamed down his forehead, he tore off his bandana to wipe his face, then glanced at Sojo, who was still watching with eyes glowing with enthusiasm. Furrowing his brow slightly, he tilted his head and beckoned Sojo closer, and Sojo obeyed, because only a fool would refuse.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Absolutely! Incredible! And the way you swing the hammer!” he clumsily mimicked the motion. “It looks amazing!”

The blacksmith’s restrained smile betrayed his pleasure.

“You work for Iwanishi?”

“No, I help him as a favor. I work for Iwakura Shigeru.”

“That wrinkled old prune?” the blacksmith’s face darkened instantly as he scrutinized Sojo. “Aren’t you too young?”

“Well, I’m to his taste.”

Those words clearly displeased the workshop owner, but he said nothing. Just shook his head, then looked toward his work. Whatever he was doing now, it would surely be incredible — one could be certain. Sojo glanced briefly at it, then turned back to the blacksmith with renewed enthusiasm, who, hesitating slightly, said:

“If you want… you can come again. If old man Iwakura gets annoying.”

“Really?!”

His eagerness seemed to confuse the blacksmith, but he still nodded.

“If you’re truly interested, I could teach you the basics. If you want, of course.”

“I want! I want! I really want to!”

What a wonderful day! Could anything else happen to top the sweetness of this new encounter? This was the chance to learn all the basics, and maybe, truly, try to surpass Rokuhira Kunishige — to… surpass. Just surpass. Yes! Perfect! Sojo was so happy he couldn’t stop grinning, and the blacksmith, clearly amused, patted him on the shoulder, then, saying it was already late, shooed him out of the workshop.

The news that he had been visiting the blacksmith more often somehow didn’t sit well with Iwanishi, and when he asked the predictable question — why should he care — he awkwardly scratched the back of his head and said:

“Well… knowing Iwakura, if he catches wind that you’ve been visiting someone like that, he might get angry.”

“What?” Sojo looked at him as if he’d just said the dumbest thing in the world. “I’m not his mistress, he’s not going to be jealous.”

“I’m just warning you!” protested Iwanishi.

Still, maybe he did know something — maybe even more than Sojo — but Sojo didn’t care to listen. He kept visiting the blacksmith whenever the man showed him secrets or demonstrated his skills. It was incredible! Chemistry had always seemed deadly boring, but now he was learning so much about metals and reactions… The blacksmith told him he was quite clever, and that flattered him immensely. Of course, people had called him clever before, but it was one thing when Iwakura said it, hinting that Sojo was sly as a snake, and quite another when it came to academic knowledge. The difference was enormous.

Perhaps Iwanishi really did know more than Sojo and knew more about old man Iwakura than he did at that time; at night, when the old man invited him back to his chambers after finishing his business, Sojo lay on the bed under a thin blanket, holding a menthol cigarette in his hand — he hadn’t smoked any others yet — and thought absentmindedly that the silk sheets and the old man’s love of fancy stuff was idiotic. His ass kept sliding — how could anyone sleep like this? But what could he say to Iwakura? That dry, shriveled prune wandered the room. Half-blind, he didn’t care whether the light was on or off; he saw nothing anyway. That seemed amusing to Sojo until the old man suddenly turned his head toward him and, in a coaxing tone, without a hint of aggression, asked:

“They told me you’ve been visiting a certain craftsman often…”

Damn, was he really jealous? Ugh, a jealous old prune!

“I’m learning chemistry from him,” Sojo said lazily, exhaling cigarette smoke in front of him. “About metal alloys and other smart stuff.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve hired you a good teacher.”

“Because it’s free.”

With Iwakura, you had to speak his language — money. The old man loved money, probably just because of his greed, and it had kept him alive to this day, so Sojo’s answer clearly satisfied him, though not completely. He clicked his tongue, then came to the bed and sat beside him. Fortunately, his hands were warm, so when they touched skin, Sojo didn’t feel like Death itself had come for his soul. He turned onto his back, exposing his stomach, and yawned. It was late, and he was thoroughly tired from the day.

Iwakura’s hand drifted lower, pausing on his abdomen.

“That could be dangerous.”

“What’s dangerous about it? He’s a blacksmith. Leave me alone. I’ll visit whoever I want.”

“You little rascal,” Iwakura said angrily, though not too harshly. He scratched the skin with his nails, making Sojo squeal in disgust, then nodded back. “At least behave well in bed. Lie still, stop squirming. I can’t deal with you. And toss that cigarette; it stinks.”

“Ugh, no way, I’ll do all the work myself. Don’t want you to lose your steam right in the process again or something.”

It was meant to be an insult, but Iwakura’s lips curved into a smirk, and he said nothing. He simply lay on the bed and let his protege snuggle closer. Sojo thought — how sick this makes me feel — but what wouldn’t he do to climb higher? The benefits outweighed the disgust. It didn’t matter. Iwakura was already old. Eventually, Death would get him. But for now… he just had to grit his teeth and follow the path he’d chosen to the end.

“I killed him.”

“Killed?”

The little adventure had cost Sojo dearly, but he was satisfied. The old, shriveled prune was finally dead, albeit not by natural means, and he had made a daring raid on the old office, creating a slaughter with the help of a couple of Iwakura’s enemies. The fight had been vigorous. Sure, he received a knife under the ribs, a typical thing in fights, but that was a comparatively small price to pay for killing the old man. It was a miracle no one had come for Sojo’s head… though they could have.

Most of the time, he stayed hidden where no one would think to look for him (except Iwanishi), that is, at the blacksmith’s. The man didn’t seem particularly concerned about the chaos Sojo had caused, which wasn’t surprising — he was someone far removed from the underground world. Peacefully forging weapons, studying datenseki, generally minding his own business. Boring. But that calm was exactly what Sojo needed, especially while armed, extremely vindictive bastards hunted him… Damn, they probably wanted to skin him and hang him on the wall. He’d make a perfect painting with that tattoo…

Meanwhile, somewhere the hunt continued, and Sojo once again watched the master at work. They’d known each other for about a year, and Sojo had learned a lot from him, like how dangerous it was to work in the forge with long hair. No, he hadn’t burned it yet, but the threat had been close…

“Yeah. Choked him out. Got sick of him,” Sojo yawned loudly. “There’s nothing worse than a jealous old man. Plus, he’d gotten too old, too controlling. I can’t spend my whole life with him hanging over me, especially if he can’t die already.”

The blacksmith just frowned, but his expression didn’t change much.

“Something wrong?”

“You speak about killing someone so calmly. That’s a heavy sin.”

“It’s not a sin. It’s the harsh truth of reality,” Sojo shrugged. He didn’t see anything unusual in it; in his circle, it was easier to name those who hadn’t killed. For example, Iwanishi, since he rarely left his workshop. “What else was I supposed to do?”

“In that case, I really can’t help you.”

When the blacksmith left the workshop, Sojo followed. There wasn’t much for him to do yet. Until the wound on his side healed, he didn’t plan to take much action; he needed to understand his limits. Fortunately, the master allowed him to stay there. Unlike Iwakura, he was compassionate, and it was the right kind of compassion. Reminded him of the twins’ grandfather. Or maybe the man was lonely, being alone with no children. Sojo couldn’t always understand the minds of such people, but he wasn’t going to refuse the offer of safety! Only a fool would, and he wasn’t a fool.

The master poured coffee. The same crappy instant stuff Iwanishi drank, but Sojo didn’t complain — he’d survived on such food for the past few years. The aroma was pleasant, and the taste was fine; the rest… he didn’t plan to live long enough to suffer the consequences of bad nutrition. Sojo nudged the cup closer and then tilted his head when the master quietly asked:

“How’s the wound?”

“Healing. What else could it do?”

Usually, the blacksmith was a man of few words. Probably why it was pleasant to be around him, he listened, remembered everything, even the most absurd stories Sojo sometimes blurted out. It was nice knowing someone was listening! But today felt different. The usually silent master suddenly seemed loquacious.

“Why do you want to learn the art of sword-making, Genichi?”

He was rarely called by name — mostly only by the twins and Iwakura. Sojo flinched. Why… Strange question.

“Because it interests me.”

“That’s not a reason,” the master said firmly.

“Well… promise you won’t laugh, okay?” the man shrugged. “I want to create something that could beat Rokuhira Kunishige.”

“You don’t like him?”

“I love him!” he snapped. “But I want to be known like him! As a great creator!” the blacksmith’s lips twitched in a smile, as if approving, but it vanished instantly when Sojo added passionately: “As the creator of the deadliest weapon!”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?” Sojo frowned. “Because that’s what weapons are made for, isn’t it? To kill.”

“No?”

“What do you mean, no?”

“A kitchen knife is made to cut meat or vegetables,” the master said, and something unpleasant stirred in Sojo’s soul. But a kitchen knife could also be used to kill. “An axe is made to chop wood. Even a sword… though it’s made to kill, it can be used differently. But killings vary. There’s cruel killing, and there’s justified. A small sacrifice for the benefit of others. Not just slaughter, but with purpose… Genichi.”

When his name was spoken again, Sojo shivered. A cold chill seemed to crawl down his spine, as if… as if…

The master’s voice was soft, soothing, even gentle.

“I’ve thought about this for a long time. I’ve been watching you. Tell me, Genichi… Have you seen it? During the war? Perhaps…”

The last words were almost a whisper. Or maybe Sojo had just gone deaf. He didn’t know. His body stiffened in convulsion.

“… have you seen an enchanted blade?”

Silent. Don’t tell him. This is your secret. Only the twins may know. Only the twins are allowed to remember that long ago he had nearly died, that long ago insects crawled under his skin and buds swelled. Long ago… He didn’t want to say, but involuntarily, unable to control himself, he nodded, and the master’s face softened into pity, igniting something inside — a strange fury. Don’t pity me. Don’t look down on me.

And the master spoke.

With every word, the hairs on the back of Sojo’s neck stood on end, and his eyes widened. He could barely hear the words over his own heartbeat, too fast, and his breathing — loud, too loud.

“This is probably hard to understand… But I see. Genichi… You don’t want to create a weapon to surpass Rokuhira Kunishige. You strive for it because you’re trying to live through your trauma, to block it out. If I chase something and surpass it, it won’t be able to hurt me… But that’s a poor coping method. Listen…”

At that moment, something snapped. Like a thin string breaking.

“Shut up! Close your mouth!”

Sojo shouted so loud it seemed the glasses on the shelf rang. He leapt to his feet, knocking over his coffee cup, and backed toward the exit, feeling that he remained upright purely by his own will. Or stubbornness. He didn’t know. Everything in his mind at that moment was the master’s words. It wasn’t a real goal. It was just an attempt to live through trauma… To live through…

Remember this, the Sword Saint had told him. There is no greater knowledge in the world. And he remembered. Etched it on his back like tablets of stone. To never forget that an enchanted blade was the greatest weapon of death ever created by man and to use it solely to bring death, honored the purpose of this treasure. Yes. Exactly.

He felt his lips curl into a snarl as he hissed:

“What do you understand?! Only I know what he wanted! Only I understand Rokuhira Kunishige! And the Sword Saint!”

The blacksmith shouted something after him as he shot out like an arrow, repeating to himself — only I understand them.

Because I saw. And I remember.

Chapter Text

In the end, they still had no answer — no idea what they were supposed to do next, how to live in this new reality where Sojo Genichi was officially dead.

Spring passed, and summer arrived — still a cold one — and Jiro thought: maybe nature knew that changes were coming. Maybe this chill was its way of preparing them, sending a warning to be careful. He wasn’t the superstitious type, but sometimes, when there was nothing else left, you started clinging to nonsense — fate, omens, anything. Still, their life remained peaceful. In the mornings, he and his brother went to the village, sometimes helping the locals since there wasn’t much else to do, then they went about their own business. Sometimes they traveled to the city to meet Sakuragi — to deliver or pick up documents Sojo used to handle — and occasionally did small jobs for her. Sometimes they sparred with the boss using bamboo swords, but it wasn’t the same… Sojo would never be who he used to be, and they all knew it. That fight, that lab explosion, had left him with his fangs broken. Rokuhira had made sure of that. And while his shadow still hung over the underworld, the three of them lived quietly in that village, far from all the noise.

But nothing ever ends peacefully, does it?

There was always that understanding — that one day, someone would come for them. Sojo had been too big a name in the black market: from a mere errand boy for an information dealer to one of the most influential weapon merchants — he’d stepped on too many toes. It couldn’t just end quietly. Even with Sakuragi’s protection — and her word carried tremendous weight underground — someone, surely, would want revenge.

It happened on a rainy day, the sixth of June — the day they were supposed to celebrate the boss’s birthday. They still didn’t let him have too much alcohol, so they drank just a little and went about their usual business. Sojo had never been one for loud birthdays anyway; he probably remembered the date only because, by some stupid cosmic joke, he’d been born a day after his beloved Rokuhira Kunishige. They ended up doing summer cleaning: Ichiro was digging around in the attic, Jiro was trying to mow the overgrown weeds in the yard, and the boss was… doing Something. He was pacing back and forth, definitely for a reason, though Jiro couldn’t tell what exactly. Carrying books? Probably sorting through Grandfather’s library. There might have been some interesting documents hidden there — something he could later hand over to Sakuragi.

After a long battle with the weeds, Jiro’s back ached, and he grumbled that breaking people’s faces was way easier. Straightening up with a crack, he glanced back and saw Sojo, looking thoughtful, an unlit cigarette in his mouth — he was still trying not to start smoking actively again, a good idea after that heart failure — carrying a few books somewhere. He couldn’t carry much with one arm. Today, he was wearing one of his old loose shirts and a thin woolen cape over it. Maybe he was secretly a lizard, Jiro thought — always cold and obsessed with hot water.

“Maybe we should buy a cake?”

Sojo froze mid-step and shot him a suspicious look.

“The hell?”

“Well, it’s your birthday — that’s a good damn reason. If we can’t get drunk, a cake’s fine too.”

“With our lifestyle,” the boss snorted, “eating cake’s the fastest way to lose shape.”

“You’re a skinny stick anyway, it’d do you some good.”

Sojo just rolled his eyes and went back to his mysterious business, while Jiro looked gloomily at the weeds. Damn, he should’ve switched jobs with his brother. At least the attic could be cleaned once — grass just kept growing back! He trudged toward the far edge of the yard and resumed cutting the grass when he suddenly felt something strange.

It was like instinct whispered to him: enemy nearby. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he jerked his head toward the fence. But the protective barriers around the house were silent… Maybe it was nothing. They’d lived in peace for half a year now — maybe he’d just forgotten what silence felt like. Still, Jiro trusted his instincts. They only failed him when he lacked experience.

For example…

He watched in that direction for a while. The wind blew. Leaves rustled. Everything seemed calm.

But still…

He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

As if the wind had carried a faint trace of blood.

Vaulting over the fence, he moved cautiously into the grove nearby. It wasn’t large — mostly thin white birches their grandfather had planted — and beyond it lay a vast open field where he and his brother had once played as kids. The light between the trees grew brighter as Jiro, sickle in hand, pushed through, squinting, until he stepped out into the open.

Pale sunlight broke through the clouds, dazzling his eyes. The rain was still falling, but lightly now — a sunshowers, they called it. People said foxes came out of their dens during such weather.

He was met by an endless green sea. It used to seem boundless, and he still wondered why no one had used it for crops or something useful. But it wasn’t the field that caught his attention — it was the two figures walking through it, waist-deep in grass, heading straight toward him. From afar, it was hard to see clearly. One was taller, but not by much. When they stepped closer, he saw the taller one was dressed in white, and the other — almost entirely in black. And something about the smaller one struck him — something that made his breath stop, made his heart race, because even from here, he could see that young face — neat, emotionless, with a crescent-shaped scar…

And eyes the color of blood.

Rokuhira.

He bolted back as fast as he could, hearing grass rustle behind him. Run. Run, now! Before it’s too late! It was happening — his bad feeling had been right all along!

Leaping back over the fence, Jiro shouted:

“Boss! Run! He’s here for you, he—”

Something slammed into him and knocked him to the ground, a blade pressed to his throat. When he tried to move, the man in white — his eyes ringed with vivid crimson makeup — grabbed him by the collar and said coldly:

“Move, and I’ll kill you.”

At the sound of his voice, Sojo stepped outside, and Rokuhira jumped over the fence, charging straight at him. He threw aside his scabbard, rushing forward like an arrow, blade raised high…

The boss stood on the veranda, watching him without a flicker of emotion, and Jiro thought — this is it. They’d tried so hard to do everything right, and now he’d have to watch him die again. This time, there’d be no saving him. The blade came closer, closer — and still, Sojo didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

And Rokuhira…

Stopped.

Abruptly. Just before the edge of the blade touched Sojo’s neck.

A ringing silence fell.

Rokuhira’s blade hung mere millimeters from Sojo’s throat, and Sojo continued to stare at him, unblinking. They all froze like that — until Ichiro came down from the attic, unaware of anything that had happened. Not even looking up, holding some book in his hands, he muttered:

“Hey, Genichi, I found—” Then he looked up and his eyes went wide. “Uh… What the hell?”

The man in white tensed up and shouted,

"Chihiro!"

"Put the blade down," Sojo said slowly, and Rokuhira hesitated for a moment, but then, as if obeying, lowered the sword.

The pressure at Jiro’s throat eased, and he sucked in a sharp breath. The man behind him didn’t move, clearly still wary of a fight, but the killing intent that had clung to him before was fading. Not that Jiro cared much about whoever was pinning him — what mattered was that the fight hadn’t started after all. He shot Sojo a furious look and barked:

"Are you out of your damn mind?! Why didn’t you run away?!"

"Why would I?.." Sojo suddenly turned his gaze from Rokuhira to Jiro. "I knew right away he wasn’t going to kill me."

"What?.."

"If Rokuhira really wanted to gut me, he’d have come at night, in the rain. He’d have broken the barrier first, then cut the three of us down in our sleep. Isn’t that right?" he gave the young man a sharp, mocking smile. Rokuhira frowned but shortly nodded when Sojo tapped his finger against the blade. "Alright, let’s skip the formalities. Tell your friend to get off my idiot. And then tell me what you came for… No, wait, later. First, I’ll make some tea."

Tea? What the hell is he talking about?! What tea?!

"Guests," he declared with importance, "must be received properly. And I’m thirsty. You bastards drank all the booze."

Properly receive the people who almost killed you? What an idiot!

But, of course, Jiro’s outrage didn’t matter here — those two, Rokuhira and the man in white, had come for Sojo. After Sojo. Yet they hadn’t killed him in the end. It was hard to tell what was going on.

Sojo actually made tea — or rather, tried to. Pouring with one hand was awkward, so Ichiro had to take over as the least injured party in this whole mess. They all gathered in the room where their grandfather used to meet with his associates. These days, they only used it to watch TV, so it felt oddly empty and formal.

The atmosphere, when the four of them sat at the table while Ichiro flitted about pouring tea, was… something.

But Sojo looked completely unfazed. As if it didn’t bother him one bit that two armed men — one of whom wielded an enchanted blade — had shown up on his doorstep. He calmly picked up his cup, blew on it, and took a sip. Rokuhira, on the other hand, sat stiffly, clearly on edge — and Jiro wasn’t any more relaxed. The man in white thought for a moment, then took a sip too and suddenly exclaimed:

"What an amazing flavor! Is that… orange?"

"Yeah. There’s this boutique in the capital. They make incredible blends there."

"Could I get the address?"

The absurdity of the situation was almost too much. And Jiro could tell he wasn’t the only one thinking that — Rokuhira’s bewildered glance met his, and for a strange moment, they shared the same sentiment: this was ridiculous. Tea? After an attempted murder? What next?

"Finally, there are more than three of us. We could play mahjong."

Oh no. Enough.

Jiro glared straight into Rokuhira’s eyes.

"Why are you here?" he burst out. The young man exchanged a look with the man in white, and Jiro turned back to Sojo, who didn’t seem to care in the slightest. "And you? Unbelievable! They came here planning to kill you, and you’re drinking tea with those people? Are you stupid or what?!"

First, Sojo gave him a bright smile, and then his face darkened instantly.

"Shut your mouth. I know when to start asking questions," he turned back to Rokuhira. "Well? Since this idiot ruined the opening act, go on. Tell me why you’re here. And why didn’t you kill me if that was your grand plan?"

Jiro had only seen Rokuhira briefly before, during their boss's first fight. They’d grabbed the girl and run before that half-baked avenger could catch them, and Sojo had made sure to distract him by letting them rough up the kid a bit. Well… a bit for an immortal child who could regrow limbs. Disgusting business. But up close, Rokuhira wasn’t what Jiro had expected. He didn’t look like a legendary menace at all: a thin, sickly-looking boy with dark circles under his eyes, face covered in scars, and only those famous eyes were true to the legends — tired, but furious. No wonder Sojo had taken an interest in him (though it was strange a guy with that face turned out to be a moralist).

In his white shirt and coat, he looked more like an overworked office clerk who’d suddenly decided to wage a personal war. His companion, the man in white, was clearly older — elegant, faintly flamboyant, with long hair tied back. A typical sorcerer type.

Rokuhira sat in silence for a while, staring at Sojo, while Sojo smiled slyly back. Only now did Jiro notice that one corner of his mouth rose a little lower than the other — probably because of the scar. Then Rokuhira lifted his cup, drained it in one go, and said flatly:

"I came here to kill you, that’s true. But I didn’t because, when I saw you… I decided there was no need."

"What, do I look that bad?"

Jiro wanted so badly to joke that Sojo hadn’t really changed — he’d always looked a bit weird — but this wasn’t the time. He just pressed his lips together. Rokuhira’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Yes. But that’s not the reason."

"Then what is?"

Sojo’s voice was smooth as honey — sweet, casual, but with an unmistakable undercurrent of threat.

"Your eyes are different."

"My eyes…" the reply seemed to cool Sojo’s hidden anger; he snorted softly and turned away. Ichiro sat beside him, poured him more tea, then glared at the guests like a loyal guard dog. "Eyes are a fine argument, sure. They say the eyes are the mirror of the soul. Only I’ve got half as many now — thanks to you."

"I didn’t take your eye," Rokuhira said evenly. "You brought that on yourself when you touched the datenseki."

"So you know about that?"

"Azami-san told me."

"That’s that bastard with weird fashion style," Ichiro muttered from behind, and Sojo nodded absentmindedly.

"I know who Azami is. Knew of him even before we met, since his reputation precedes him," Jiro wondered what kind of reputation that was, but Sojo clicked his tongue suddenly. "What an asshole, huh?" he sounded genuinely irritated, shaking his head sharply. "Not only did he ruin my peaceful coma, but he also sold me out. I hate rats. And you?" he jabbed a finger at the man in white. "You're one of Kamunabi’s dogs, too?"

The stranger smiled radiantly.

"Not quite."

"Keeping secrets?"

"Let’s just say I assist my dear young friend… in many matters."

"I saw your stance — and the way you held that sword. You’re from that damn school… what was it called…" Sojo drummed his fingers on the table, trying to remember. "Whatever. Like those two swordsmen, right? The ones Rokuhira chose during the war. Working for the government now?"

"Oh no," the man in white said lightly, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. "I’m one of those swordsmen."

A stunned silence fell. Sojo’s face didn’t change, but his eyes grew distant — thinking, perhaps remembering that encounter with one of that legendary six. Chihiro shot the man in white a warning look, like you shouldn’t have said that, and the twins exchanged wide-eyed glances. It should’ve been shocking — but then again, they already had two other swordsmen sitting right there, so statistically, maybe not that surprising.

Sojo was the first to speak again. He blinked, snapped back to reality, and squinted at the man in white.

"That stance, that youthful face of yours… and your looks, I swear I’ve seen on a poster. You’re Uruha Yoji."

The man in white smiled.

"Correct."

"And why the hell are you here? That young punk," Sojo nodded toward Rokuhira, "I get. Revenge, justice, all that righteous crap. But you? Don’t try to feed me some noble story. I know damn well you people butchered half the country during the war."

Uruha Yoji’s smile hardened.

"I’ve never denied that. But I was curious to meet the man who became the second wielder of the enchanted blade — after my dear comrade, slain by your masters."

Sojo bristled instantly.

"The Hishaku were never my masters."

"But they made good use of your research," Uruha’s voice turned cold. "And they gave you the blade."

"Research..?"

The conversation was about to spiral into a long argument, and Rokuhira seemed to sense it, so he cut in. Raising a hand to stop Uruha, he turned his steady gaze toward Sojo.

"I came here not only to kill you, but also to find out if you know something I don’t. About the Hishaku. But judging by your reaction… You don’t know much at all."

"So that damn Azami wasn’t satisfied with what I already gave him? Unbelievable. No, I don’t know anything else. What about the weapons? What happened? And why are you," he glanced at Uruha, "not locked away in one of the fortresses? You were all sealed up, so no one could use the swords."

"You really don’t know?" Rokuhira sounded genuinely confused.

"I was in a coma! After our fight! And after that, I decided to stay the hell out of it."

"So it’s true then…"

That seemed enough. Rokuhira thought for a moment, exchanged a look with Uruha, who gave a slight nod, and then began to tell them what none of the three had been following — what happened after the auction. The attacks on the safe bases. How Uruha Yoji had been killed by his own teacher, one of the other swordsmen, and how Rokuhira had died with him, only for both to be brought back to life by that very man. The Hishaku’s assault on the headquarters. The datenseki — Sojo’s own failed creation, now weaponized by the organization for their own ends. Listening, Jiro silently thanked fate that they’d stayed out of that mess. Sojo’s face, however, defied description — cycling through colors one might only find on coral fish or baboons.

Jiro remembered when the sky went black. He and his brother couldn’t ignore it, but the illusion hanging in the sky lasted only a few days before fading. They’d decided not to get involved, especially when Kamunabi’s radio broadcast claimed everything was “under control”, which, of course, meant it wasn’t. But then it vanished, and since the world hadn’t ended, well… things must’ve been fine. Probably. Sojo looked troubled. He chewed on his unlit cigarette, staring into the void, saying nothing. He seemed deeply unsettled by all the talk of the datenseki. But they had never achieved stable results, and supplies were limited… Yura couldn’t have made more — and the documents were gone with the lab.

Feeling the silence stretch awkwardly, Jiro thought of saying something but couldn’t find the words. Ichiro, though, caught on quicker. He leaned forward, curiosity thinly veiled, and addressed Uruha:

"So you’re really Uruha Yoji?" the man blinked and nodded distractedly. "Holy shit. Fushimi mentioned you once."

Uruha immediately stiffened.

"Fushimi?"

"Yeah, there was this guy…"

"You said his name was Fushimi, right?"

"Our old friend," Jiro added lazily, still watching Sojo, who seemed lost in his own head. "About our age. We lived in the same temple. He said you saved him once… Something like that. Maybe you don’t even remember, but—"

"No," Uruha cut him off sharply, looking suddenly shaken. His voice dropped to a near whisper. "I remember. A boy named Fushimi. He…"

"Weird to think how he’s doing now, huh? Damn, he’d probably strangle us if he knew we’d met!"

"Fushimi’s dead."

Oh.

Jiro resisted the urge to groan and bury his face in his hands. Of course. Just their luck. Great, now the conversation was about to get even more unbearable. He saw Rokuhira’s eyes flick nervously from one person to another, while Sojo seemed oblivious, still sunk in thought. Ichiro, on the other hand, faltered out:

"What do you mean, dead?"

"He was… part of my guard. Killed by a sorcerer from the Hishaku."

Them again. It was always Yura’s fault somehow.

"I can’t believe it. He really went to work for the Kamunabi. I thought he was joking! Well, that gives us even more reason to hate those bastards. Hey, Genichi," Jiro kicked Sojo under the table. The boss blinked out of his thoughts and gave him a strange look. "You heard that? Remember Fushimi? Those bastards not only screwed you over but killed him, too! What a bunch of—"

"You knew him?" Uruha’s voice rustled softly, like paper in the wind.

"Yeah, the four of us lived together."

"He lived with war orphans," Uruha tilted his head, frowning as if the conclusions he was drawing didn’t please him. "Well, this has turned into quite the conversation, hasn’t it? Very honest. Very personal. We’ve learned so much about each other that our looming fight is going to feel painfully awkward and stupid now."

He wasn’t wrong, that beautiful bastard.

Jiro leaned toward Sojo, who still looked half-absent, and muttered:

"This is the worst birthday you’ve ever had."

"Shut the… hell up!" Sojo suddenly exploded, shoving him aside. Jiro yelped, Ichiro froze like a statue, and both guests tensed. Then Sojo threw away his cigarette and groaned, clutching his head. "God… damn it. Those fucking Hishaku!"

"Are you that upset about Fushimi?"

"What? No, not about fucking Fushimi!" he snarled, shaking his head. "This whole story — it’s insane. Completely insane."

When he started laughing — first a low chuckle, then louder, and louder — Jiro thought, great. He’s finally lost it. Completely lost it. And it’s all because of Rokuhira. The man had been just starting to act normal again, but no, of course, Rokuhira had to show up and drag him back into the chaos. And that could only end badly. Jiro exchanged a quick glance with his brother — and then noticed Uruha watching him. The man seemed moved by the story — if they’d spent three years together, Fushimi must have been dear to him, especially given they’d met during the war. Maybe he was even willing to cooperate…

But instead of turning violent, Sojo just kept laughing. Between fits of laughter, he choked out:

"Ha-ha-ha! You know what I just realized? There are three of us here — three who died and broke our contracts! A goddamn miracle!" he covered his face with one hand. "Shit. I need a drink."

Then he suddenly lifted his head, eyes flashing like a wolf’s, and locked them on Rokuhira. The look was anything but friendly. All through the talk, Sojo had acted unusually amiable toward the man who’d once killed him, but everyone at the table, including Rokuhira himself, surely understood that this entire puppet show had been orchestrated by Yura. He’d pulled the strings.

Sojo’s strings had been cut — he was no longer of use. But Rokuhira…

Everything revolved around Rokuhira.

And yet Sojo’s voice came out unexpectedly gentle.

"I want to talk to you. Alone."

When Azami-san told Chihiro that Sojo was still alive, for some reason, he wasn’t surprised at all.

Maybe, deep down, he’d always known that Sojo was one of those people — the kind who simply didn’t die that easily. The man had somehow managed to crawl back to the lab even after Chihiro had cut him in half, his guts nearly spilling out of the gaping hole in his abdomen — something Chihiro himself hadn’t been able to do when Samura had done the same to him. A slashed shoulder, a deep wound across his torso… If he thought about it, Chihiro had died even faster than Sojo. Did that mean he was weaker? Probably. Or maybe it simply meant that Sojo was one of those who clawed for life with every last shred of strength. In the end, none of that really mattered. Azami had suggested he try to pry a little more information out of Sojo — maybe the Hishaku had told him something he’d forgotten, something he hadn’t shared with Azami, not out of stubbornness or secrecy, but because his half-dead brain simply hadn’t remembered it. Chihiro knew Azami-san had interrogated him while he was teetering on the edge of death, and it clearly hadn’t yielded much.

From the looks of it, Yura hadn’t told Sojo anything of value either — he’d just given him a weapons contract and then, to ensure the project’s success, handed over Kuregumo. Was it a setup? That’s what Azami thought. That’s what Sojo himself suspected. And Chihiro was starting to think the same — that their entire conflict had been created from the outside, provoked into existence. Char’s appearance had only accelerated it, not caused it. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

So when Azami gave him the lead on where to find Sojo, Chihiro agreed without hesitation — to see if Sojo knew anything new, maybe share similar suspicions… and then kill him.

Uruha went with him — the same Uruha who’d been helping him train his sword style, and who was clearly bored out of his mind. Uruha-san was a useful ally, and if Chihiro was walking straight into the den of a mad fanatic like his father, it was better to have another one on his side — especially someone who’d known Rokuhira Kunishige personally. Fight fire with fire, as they say.

On the way there, Chihiro found himself thinking how strange it was that the thought of meeting Sojo again didn’t fill him with anger or disgust anymore, though he was still bitter about Char. Maybe everything that had happened had opened his eyes a little — made him see that, in the end, he and Sojo were very much alike. Sojo was a crooked reflection of him — one of the paths Chihiro himself could have taken but didn’t. He realized it for sure when he finally reached the place and saw his first real opponent again. Sojo stared into his eyes like he was hypnotized, unblinking. He was missing an arm and an eye now, and he no longer looked as terrifying as he had during their first encounter — yet something of the old Sojo Genichi remained in him. That same unyielding core. But his gaze… his gaze had changed.

There was no hatred in it. And maybe that, more than anything, was what made Chihiro stop and not kill him right there, even though for a moment he’d wanted to ignore Azami’s instructions and just lop the man’s head off.

His instincts had been right.

The whole “tea party” felt like a delirious dream — absurd, unreal. So when Sojo suggested they speak in private, Chihiro agreed without hesitation. Without the crowd around them, it would be easier anyway, but…

Did either of them really know what they wanted to talk about? What was the point of this conversation at all?

And yet, once they were alone together on the veranda, something shifted — as if there was no longer any need for a specific reason to talk.

Sojo sat down on the floor, and Chihiro followed his lead. They faced each other in silence. Once, Chihiro had seen nothing in those eyes but madness; now, all he saw was a man. It was funny, really — he still couldn’t stand Sojo because of Char, but the thoughts that had haunted him lately — about Tenri, about Samura-san, about all those reflections of himself, all those wrong versions of who he might become — had changed something in him. What would happen if I kept walking my father’s path blindly? If I stopped listening to others? Sojo was another one of those mirrors, and in some strange way, he’d helped Chihiro accept a harsh truth: that a sword was nothing but a slave to its master, and if the wielder willed it, the enchanted blade could become not a weapon of salvation, but of ruin.

When Sojo pulled out a small box, Chihiro blinked in surprise. He felt hot, so he slipped off his coat, left in just his shirt, and then heard Sojo snicker.

"You look like an office drone."

"It’s Masumi’s uniform."

"So you’re working for the government now? Tsk, tsk…"

"No. They just… help me."

Chihiro frowned, watching as Sojo spread some cards on the floor, then shoved a few toward him.

"What’s this?"

"Koi-koi. Let’s play. It’s easier to talk over a game."

"I don’t know the rules."

"Don’t chicken out," Sojo snorted mockingly. "They are dead simple. Look—"

Even so, remembering all the combinations turned out to be harder than he’d thought, so Chihiro ended up with a cheat sheet in his hand. He didn’t really see the point — he doubted they could have a real conversation over a card game — but… why not try? It was a peaceful, friendly gesture, and his former enemy wasn’t showing any aggression. Maybe Sojo had had plenty of time to think, too — though Chihiro hadn’t pegged him as someone who changed his mind easily.

He picked up one card from the table and paired it with one in his hand, trying to focus on collecting the simpler ones. Easier that way.

"You really saw the Shinuchi in action?"

The question hit him so hard he almost dropped his cards. He looked up, startled, and found Sojo studying his hand, or at least pretending to. But it was clear what he was really waiting for. Swallowing hard, Chihiro exhaled.

"Yeah. I saw it."

"And?"

"Why are you asking?"

"I want to hear what you think about it."

"Because of our old argument? About why the swords were created?"

"No," Sojo smiled faintly and looked him in the eye. "I think we’ve both accepted by now that it’s the wielder’s vision that decides how the weapon is used. I’m just curious what you think of the Shinuchi. Because I’m… well, curious. That’s all."

What a strange question.

"It’s terrifying."

He wasn’t sure such a simple answer would satisfy Sojo, but it was the truest one he had. When Sazanami Kyora had wielded the sword at the auction, Chihiro had felt uneasy. But the real fear hadn’t come until later, when they’d reached the auction hall — when the plants had begun to crawl up the steps, killing those who hadn’t managed to flee. Like a plague. For a split second, the thought had crossed his mind: What could have driven my father to create something like this? Why does this weapon even exist? Maybe that’s why Shiba’s revelation hadn’t shocked him much — that the Sword Saint had wiped out two hundred thousand people in an instant. With a sword like that, such destruction didn’t just seem possible — it felt inevitable.

Unlike the obedient Enten or the pliant Kuregumo, this enchanted blade was something entirely different. Chihiro couldn’t define it precisely, but he’d made up his mind: I have to destroy it. No matter what.

"Why do you ask?"

"Hm-hm-hm…" Sojo rubbed his chin theatrically, then reached for another set of cards. He was collecting ribbons. "Let’s just say I got curious about your take on that particular sword. Considering you’re the son of Rokuhira Kunishige and all that…"

"That’s not the whole reason."

"Do you really need another one?"

Chihiro narrowed his eyes threateningly, and Sojo laughed lightly, but there was a strain in it.

“Back in the war, I had the chance to see and feel its power firsthand. I was even younger than you are now, and it left an impression that never faded. So I wanted to hear it from you… one witness to another.”

He said it so simply, as if there were nothing shocking in such a confession.

Blades… they’re weapons of slaughter. That’s what Sojo had told him the first time they met — arrogant, self-assured, infuriating. Then, Chihiro had flown into a rage, but now realization struck him like a blow: perhaps there was a reason someone would think that way. As Shiba once said, the propaganda machine had worked tirelessly to uphold the myth of the six heroic swordsmen, but if you’d seen something like that, you could never again believe blades were weapons of salvation. Especially near the end of the war, when the Sword Saint had begun to lose his mind… But what could he even say to that? How should he react?

He stared down at the cards in his hands, then looked up when Sojo flicked his lighter. So much for patience — he was actually smoking now. Was the topic that unpleasant?

“I want to destroy that blade.”

“Like Kuregumo?”

The memory came unbidden — a moonlit night, one diagonal strike, the sensation of cutting through metal and then flesh. Sojo hadn’t made a sound back then, though now Chihiro understood the kind of pain he must have felt. He involuntarily touched his own shoulder, but Sojo clearly took it the wrong way.

“Don’t pity me.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Chihiro replied evenly. “But yes, like Kuregumo.”

“You think you can do it?”

“I almost broke Tobimune.”

“Almost?”

“The sword… it can restore things. Wounds, objects — itself, too,” Chihiro shook his head. “I know it won’t be easy, but I’ll try. Why are you so interested, though? I thought you’d be against it, considering how much of a fan you are of my father.”

Sojo made a deliberately thoughtful face and clicked his tongue.

“Well, that’s… complicated. Depends on perspective. See, on the one hand, I obviously don’t want you to destroy something so magnificent — and dangerous. It takes a one-in-a-million genius to create such a weapon. As we’ve seen, it’s an achievement no one else can replicate. My own pitiful invention was only good for killing my childhood friend and then its wielder — well, several wielders, myself included,” he laughed airily. “Not the proudest record, really… But on the other hand…” there was a glimmer of something thoughtful in his eye, something Chihiro hadn’t seen during either of their duels. A faint reminder that the man sitting before him was human too, carrying his own history — the kind that might explain such twisted convictions. And now that Chihiro knew a little more, he found he could almost agree: maybe it wasn’t the most foolish outlook after all. “Sometimes you see something,” Sojo went on quietly, “and it scars you so deeply that you can’t bear it. So you start chasing it, trying to recreate it, pretending you admire it, when really your knees are shaking. You want to outdo the creator of your nightmare by becoming one yourself. You get that, right? I don’t want you to destroy that blade. But at the same time… I think I’ll be glad if you do. I’m afraid that if it blooms again…”

Sojo trailed off, but Chihiro didn’t need to hear the rest. He understood. And maybe — just maybe — he agreed. Sometimes you chase after nightmares because there’s nothing else left. Just as he’d followed the Hishaku’s trail, even though his first encounter with Yura had nearly made him abandon the mission altogether. He should have killed him then, but Yura had only been playing with him. It was hard to keep one’s composure sometimes.

He drew two cards and laid them down.

The Shinuchi was something beyond Chihiro’s comprehension — the blade itself, its power, two hundred thousand lives, the Sword Saint… He remembered the battle with Sazanami Kyora, how it had felt like he wasn’t really fighting him but someone — or something — else. Why would the Sword Saint take control of another person? Why act like that? What had happened during the war? Maybe his comrades knew, but they’d stayed silent. His father hadn’t wanted to remember. And Sojo… perhaps he’d only seen a fragment of the man the legends spoke of.

But he had seen him nonetheless.

“You saw him? The blade’s wielder?”

“I even talked to the guy.”

So close, then.

“Thanks for your honesty,” Chihiro said softly, unsure what else to say. “You’re being unusually open with me, considering we’re enemies.”

Sojo was no friend or ally — they had both tried to kill each other. Chihiro hadn’t expected this kind of confession from his former opponent: that the root of Sojo’s madness lay in something horrific he’d witnessed as a child — something born of his own father’s creation. The thought left a sour heaviness in his chest. Am I guilty for that, too? There was such a thing as the sin of blood — and now, after his father’s death, those sins had passed to Chihiro. He didn’t want to apologize — it would be meaningless, and he still despised Sojo for what he’d done to Char, but things no longer seemed so black and white.

Sojo chuckled and narrowed his one remaining eye. Look at him, Chihiro thought. This man clawed his way back from death. He’s reexamined his own beliefs. And here I am, still running, like a starving wolf that doesn’t know how to stop.

“We’re not enemies anymore, Rokuhira.”

“I did kill you.”

“Well, yeah, that wasn’t fun. And if I could, I’d punch you for it. But it’s been, what, half a year? Can’t stay mad forever, right?” he took another drag and flicked the ash off the veranda. “What’s done is done. You could’ve killed me today, but you didn’t. Times change.”

They both fell silent.

Somewhere far off, a bird sang — long and low, its song stretching into the evening air. Cicadas buzzed. The light was turning gold. From the next room, Chihiro caught snippets of Uruha and the twins talking, laughing at intervals. Then he looked back at Sojo, who was resting his chin in one hand, gazing at the grove beyond. The cigarette in his mouth was ashing. He, too, had changed — subtly, imperceptibly.

It was time for Chihiro to change as well. He was trying, truly trying. Sometimes it even worked. Sometimes he allowed himself to accept help, to admit his feelings honestly. With friends at his side, it had become easier. He was beginning to feel human again — not just a machine built to kill.

The sun was slowly sinking behind the horizon.

It was so quiet here. Peaceful. Like home. This was the kind of peace Chihiro had dreamed of for the past three years. He turned to Sojo again when the man finally moved and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. The card game no longer seemed important. By accident, Chihiro’s gaze caught on a card lying on the table — a white moon disc on a red background.

“You just wanted to ask me about the Shinuchi?” he said after a moment. “But why in private?”

“I don’t want my guys thinking it still haunts me. And they do think that,” Sojo chuckled light-mindedly, as though it were ridiculous rather than frightening. “It’s been almost twenty years. Even nightmares have an expiration date. Still… this whole situation worries me a bit. And since you’re going to dive into that mess anyway, I got curious what you think of it. We never agreed on what blades were meant for, but in the end, we were both wrong. So I figured, we’ve got something in common after all.”

He pointed at Chihiro with a faint grin.

“I wanted to see if we see that blade the same way. The circumstances were different, sure — but you and I both know what it really is.”

Not just a weapon. A herald of inevitable death.

“And?” Chihiro asked quietly. “Do we see it the same way?”

Sojo tapped a finger against his lips, still wearing that cryptic smile. Chihiro expected him to deflect again, to hide behind a joke, but this time, Sojo actually answered.

“Well… yeah, I suppose so. It’s terrifying as hell. But mesmerizing too, isn’t it?”

“Mesmerizing,” Chihiro echoed softly, unable to argue.

It really was beautiful, in its own way — like the beauty of death itself.

“Like everything Rokuhira Kunishige ever made. Don’t you think?”

“Was that supposed to be flattery?” Chihiro snorted skeptically. “Why?”

Sojo made a wounded face, as if the remark had genuinely offended him.

“I never flatter anyone! That’s lame. I only say what I mean,” then a mischievous spark flashed in his eye. “But am I wrong? You’re like that Sword Saint everyone praises — a hero, righteous and all that. The young god of war, they used to call him.”

Nonsense, Chihiro thought. He didn’t like praise like that — it always felt hollow. But he didn’t argue. Better not to ruin Sojo’s mood.

“I’ll destroy that blade,” he said firmly.

Sojo looked straight into his eyes, unblinking.

“For the future. For the people. For my father’s memory. For myself… and, I suppose, for you too.”

Because it was the right thing to do.

In response, Sojo only gave a crooked smile, saying nothing. He didn’t add another word — just turned back toward the sunset, lost in thought. About meaningless things. The sea of flowers. The Sword Saint. A stray whisper he’d overheard — about a birthday. One day after his father’s. Silly, wasn’t it? But a funny coincidence. Maybe in some distant reality — one where Char hadn’t suffered, where the world was a kinder place — they might have met not as enemies, but as something else. Allies, perhaps? The thought drew the faintest of smiles from Chihiro. Ridiculous. And yet, both of them had already admitted they’d been wrong. The hatred of the past… well, it needed to be remembered, but not clung to. If you fixate only on the past, you can’t move toward the future.

If Chihiro hadn’t accepted that blades could also be weapons of death, he’d still be trapped in that childish, naive worldview. And Sojo… maybe he’d started rethinking things too.

The wind gently stirred the grass, turning it golden in the last rays of the sun. Leaves whispered in the trees.

Chihiro looked ahead, feeling that Sojo’s gaze was fixed in the same direction, and thought, with a strange calm. Idyllic.