Chương 27: Chapter VIII — A Jade Cracked Under the River’s Weight

Back in the hall, Masahiko returned, settling back into his seat.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Lord Oda. The bathrooms here are... quite extensive." Galan blinked, shaking off the lingering haze of his memory.

"Good to know the venue is up to standard," he said. He leaned forward.

"By the way, can I continue our conversation?"

"Of course."

"What if a maid helps her master do wrong?" Galan asked, his voice low.

"Say she sorts the victims, reports escape attempts, and drugs them into compliance. Tangential help, but vital. What kind of punishment would Japan sentence her with?" Masahiko looked shocked, then cleared his throat.

"That is... a difficult question. The kind magistrates wrestle with for generations." He sighed.

"In Tsushima, the law looks at intent and action. If her actions caused direct harm, she would be punished. Imprisonment, public service—perhaps worse, if malice could be proven." He paused, choosing his words carefully.

"But moral culpability is heavier. Fear is a powerful motivator, Lord Oda. A servant's loyalty, even to a monster, can be a form of survival. The law must ask: 'Is the root malice, or merely the instinct to survive?'""Would fear absolve her?"

"Not absolve. But complicate. We have a saying: Even a single grain of rice can tip the scale. A small action has consequences, but the weight of that grain is judged by the hand that placed it and the forces pressing upon that hand."

"What if she thought she was helping them avoid his wrath?" Galan pressed.

"Choosing the lesser of two evils?" Masahiko gazed into the distance.

"Then the tragedy is that her good intentions served to perpetuate her master's evil. In such a case, the punishment might lean towards re-education. Service to those who suffered. Outright condemnation is harder when the actor believes they are mitigating harm." This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. Galan leaned back, staring up at the balcony.

"Yeah. That's the unfortunate part." He sighed.

"You know, early on... I wondered if I did the right thing by sparing her." He turned to Masahiko.

"I'm glad I did. But it made me think about the people I've been too harsh to. Maybe it would have been better to let them seek forgiveness... instead of burying them along with their master." Masahiko looked at him with quiet respect.

"The burden of judgment is heavy, Lord Oda. To question one's past actions is a sign of wisdom, not weakness. Redemption, where possible, is a worthy path." Galan smiled, a flicker of genuine warmth in his eyes.

"Hmph. Perhaps you're right." He stretched his arms. They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling around them. Then, the announcer's voice cut through the quiet in Godlang.

"Honored guests, we trust you are refreshed. The stage is now set for a display of vibrant energy. Prepare yourselves for the spirited 'Dance of the Wind,' brought to you by the acclaimed White Moons Flowing Dance Association!" The lights dimmed, and the curtain swept open. The mountain statues had returned, but now they were the backdrop for nine dancers arranged in a perfect arrow formation.

They wore vibrant, multi-layered kimono patterned with emerald mountains and sky-blue rivers, holding closed fans like dormant seeds waiting for spring. A deep, resonant thud from a drum broke the silence, followed by the sharp crack of a smaller drum. The lead dancer snapped her head up, eyes blazing, and flicked both fans open with a loud thwack. Her sleeves billowed like petals unfurling. The ensemble moved in perfect sync.

The kneeling dancers rose slowly, extending their fans like late blooms stretching toward the light. The back row stepped forward, fanning out into a crescent, their fans tilting upward to form a pulsing, living flower. The drums picked up the pace. The crescent dissolved into a spearhead, the dancers rippling outward like wind through grass. The lead dancer glided backward, her fans carving delicate arcs in the air, guiding the ensemble.

She spun at the center, her movements mimicking budding leaves, perfectly synced with the crisp rhythm. The formation tightened and expanded, a living tapestry of spring. Fans snapped open and shut in staggered waves, creating silhouettes of growth and harmony. Then, the music shifted. The deep pulse of the drums slowed, growing ominous. The melody turned dark and turbulent, signifying the coming of a storm. Galan sat motionless, his eyes fixed on the stage.

But his mind turned inward once more, dragging him back to the moment when he himself became the storm that upturned the lives of others.