Chương 17: Book 1: Chapter 7 - Satomi [Part 1]

"There is nothing outside of yourself that can ever enable you to get better, stronger, richer, quicker, or smarter. Everything is within. Everything exists. Seek nothing outside of yourself." - Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings.

"What happened?" Tarō demanded again Shimon sat on his futon with both hands pressed against his throat. The side doors remained open. Cold night air pushed into the room, moving the paper charm tied inside his clothes, making it scratch softly against his chest. Kume's eyes shifted from the open doors to Shimon's face.

"Ayanokouji."

"Bad dream," Shimon grunted, the words already feeling vastly inadequate even as they caused the other man to just stare at him blankly Shimon swallowed.

"Wind opened the door," he explained weakly. Tarō said nothing for a moment. Then he rose, crossed the room, and looked out over the veranda, his sword in his hand. He glanced left, right, then upward, where moonlight silvered the edges, but nothing waited there. And the inn remained quiet, no alarm, no servants screaming, and most definitely no invisible thing crawling down the corridors. The other man slid the door closed with careful hands and set the wooden latch. Then he stood there a while longer.

"Bad dream," he repeated. Shimon just shrugged with an attempt at nonchalance.

"Yes." Tarō turned back, and somehow he looked older than he had that afternoon. Without armor, with his hair loosened and one side of his face bruised purple, grief and exhaustion had rallied.

"Dreams can be bad," he said at last, deferring true judgment and suspicion until later. Shimon wanted to thank him properly, but settled for a noncommittal nod. The orange screen waited. Accept?

"No," Shimon whispered silently. He thought of the weight on his chest. Of the air bending above his face. Of that terrible warmth inside his skull. Of the words, I am your friend. The young man was quite sure that was most definitely not his friend. Accept? Shimon closed his eyes. Refusing seemed brave. Refusing also seemed like one of those choices that protagonists always made in defiance before the world taught them the truth of the inevitable. So, gritting his teeth, he accepted.

[QUEST ACCEPTED] Go Into Service With The Local Lord Current Objective: Survive formal presentation. Shimon opened his eyes.

"Wonderful," he murmured. Tarō, who had lain down again but had not put his sword away, glanced over.

"What?"

"Nothing," he replied hastily. The other man grunted in a way that suggested he had begun to hate that answer. After that, sleep should have been impossible. Shimon told himself as much while lying stiffly on the futon with his sword within reach and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling beams. The room had become untrustworthy. The doors were simply doors no longer, but entrances to the darker places.

The shadows behind the painted screen looked too deep to be natural, and every creak of the inn became the first step of something coming back. He was not going to sleep again, he promised himself. Unfortunately, the human body, even empowered, was a traitor of the oldest kind. Fear kept watch for a while, but exhaustion came behind it and dragged Shimon down into darkness.

When he woke again, morning had already entered and made itself present in the room. Sunlight filtered through the paper doors in pale rectangles, soft and ordinary. Somewhere outside, a servant moved along the corridor. Birds made noises as if all was well in the world. Shimon stared at the ceiling and blinked. He was alive, and this was a much-welcome relief A blue panel opened at the edge of his vision.

[PASSIVE MONITORING ACTIVE] Sleep Quality: Poor Total Sleep Duration: Insufficient Stress Response: Elevated Muscular Strain: Moderate Hydration: Sufficient Unknown Carrier Signal: Low / Intermittent If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Condition: Spiritually Marked Recommendation: Rest, food, and avoidance of further stressors. Shimon blinked at it.

"Avoidance of further stressors," he whispered.

"Genius." Tarō was already awake, sitting cross-legged near the wall while tying his hair back. His movements were slow, economical, and faintly painful to watch. The bruise at his ribs must have been worse than he admitted. He looked at Shimon.

"You speak to yourself before breakfast, too?"

"Yes," the young man replied, somehow getting up.

"Good," Tarō grunted.

"Then you are well enough to eat." That was a rather optimistic medical assessment, Shimon thought to himself. Breakfast came soon after. Two servants entered on their knees, sliding the door open with a practiced smoothness. They brought low trays and set them before the two survivors. Shimon copied Tarō's posture because copying remained his strongest social skill. The meal was simple, but to Shimon's body it had all the majesty of a royal banquet.

Rice, white and steaming, and next to it, a bowl of soup with miso's deep salty smell rising into the air. A small grilled fish, its skin blistered salt with pickled vegetables cut into neat pieces. Something green and bitter-looking in a little dish, and fresh tea in a plain cup. No protein bar, no convenience-store chicken, no plastic container with a printed calorie count. No, this was real food as his mother liked to preach. He picked up the black lacquer soup bowl, then nearly stopped because it was beautiful.

Not gaudy, not museum beautiful, not the sort of object placed behind glass, but just beautiful in its simplicity and elegant lines. Around the rim, a thin line of red had been painted, and small flecks that might have been gold dust formed the suggestion of reeds near the base. Shimon's family had dragged him through enough cultural experiences during childhood visits to Japan that some old memory stirred. Urushi lacquer. Tree sap transformed by craft into something shining and durable.

His grandmother had once told him not to touch a display case and then explained the history of lacquer bowls for ten minutes. He had not listened properly, and now, he regretted it with the specific bitterness of a person blessed by hindsight. The rice was good, the soup was better, and the fish was the best of all. It was not complicated, but it held the simple, subtle flavors that Japanese food was famous for. His stomach might even be able to handle Shimon ate too quickly until Tarō gave him a look.

"What?" Shimon asked.

"You will choke."

"At least I will be full." Tarō's mouth moved by a fraction, eyes still haunted. It was not a smile, not exactly, but the ghost of one. Then it was gone as quickly as it came. He did not seem hungry, eating as he was with careful discipline. After a few bites, he set down his chopsticks and looked at his rice and then looked down at the food.

"My brother would have eaten both trays if he could," he said softly. Shimon had no answer for that. As if in honor of his brother, Tarō picked up his chopsticks and resumed eating. They had almost finished when footsteps came along the corridor. Not the soft steps of servants. These had weight, rhythm, and the subtle arrogance of men accustomed to violence. The door slid open and two samurai waited outside, kneeling only long enough to be correct before rising.

They wore castle livery: dark cloth, practical armor, and a crest worked on sleeve and breast. Two thick horizontal lines, one above the other. Simple, severe and repeated on small cloth badges and the little guard pennon carried by the younger man behind them. The older of the two samurai spoke.

"By order of Nagai Morichika-sama, senior retainer to Lord Satomi Yoshihiro, Kume Tarō and Ayanokouji Shimon are summoned for presentation." At last, a name to attach to the anxiety. Satomi Yoshihiro, a lord's name. The local sun which all danger currently orbited. Tarō set down his chopsticks, bowed from his seated position, and answered with a low, "We obey." Shimon copied him a fraction late. The older samurai's eyes flickered to him, noting the delay.

Not condemning, at least not yet, but noting it down nonetheless and making the young man feel rather exposed. They were given little time to prepare. Their armor had been cleaned as well as could be managed overnight. Shimon's was still mismatched, still not truly his, but much of the old blood and forest filth had been removed. Some cords had been replaced. His helmet sat with it, taken from yesterday's harvest of death and had been adjusted enough to sit on his head without wobbling like a cooking pot.

His weapons had been cleaned, and after a careful inspection he saw that the blades of his swords and spear had been sharpened and polished. Looking at them, Shimon saw not just weapons, but the tools of the new trade that had been forced upon him. He was now a man with two swords and half-decent armour, summoned into the presence of a lord. The game, the System, fate—or whatever force was behind everything that had brought him here—seemed determined to railroad him down a path already laid out.

The orange quest marker sat quietly in his vision. Current Objective: Survive formal presentation.

They followed the samurai out of the ryokan into daylight, the castle town looking very different under the morning's gaze. In the clear light of day, with his body fed and no yōma immediately trying to eat him, the place had become rather picturesque. The street outside the inn sloped gently toward a wider road lined by wooden buildings with thatched or tiled roofs leaning close. Paper lanterns hung unlit from eaves. Shopfronts had opened, their shutters lifted, with cloth curtains swaying at doorways.

Over there, a cooper worked at a barrel. Opposite, a woman swept dust from the packed earth before her home. Boys carried buckets from a well, and somewhere, a dog barked. Smoke rose from hearths in thin blue threads. It must have rained in the night, for wet roofs shone under the morning sun. Beyond the buildings, Shimon caught glimpses of fields, irrigation ditches, and low ridges. The air smelled of rice, woodsmoke, damp earth, animals, and humans.

It was beautiful, felt almost semi-familiar and normal until he saw something that was not a cow pulling a plow through one of the fields. In the Japan Shimon came from, this entire region would have been swallowed by asphalt roads, train lines, apartment blocks, power lines, convenience stores, road signs, vending machines, and the endless geometry of the modern world.

Somewhere near here in his world, people would be commuting, staring at phones, complaining about train delays due to an enthusiastic jumper, buying canned coffee, and going about their day, without so much as looking at the sky. Here, the world had not yet been paved over and tamed by concrete and steel. It felt like standing inside a taiga drama, except everything was very real and had not been softened for prime-time, family friendly viewing.

A pack lizard passed ahead of them, low and broad-bodied, dragging a small cart of firewood with the patient misery of a creature employed by civilization. It had pebbled green-brown skin, a blunt head, and a harness fitted around its shoulders. Not a dinosaur, perhaps. Or perhaps yes. The biochip in his brain tried to help. [VISUAL MATCH ATTEMPT SUCCESSFUL] Taxonomic Classification: Archosaurian / Aetosaurus variant Thank you, Shimon thought. Looks like they really survived the meteor."

The samurai leading continued, and people looked as they passed. Some recognized Tarō. Some recognized Shimon from the previous evening or from rumor, which was worse. Soft words were spoken from behind sleeves and hands.

"Yōma…"

"Two men…"

"Sakurai…"

"Ayanokouji…" He kept his face still because it had served him well so far. Inwardly, he wondered whether this was how rumor and reputation spread. Yesterday, he had been a stranger in looted armor. This morning, people whispered his name in the street. The patron had promised renown, strength, and wealth. Shimon decided he did not much care for renown if it did not come with a sponsorship deal. Renown in an age such as this one, was very much another target painted on his back.