Chương 7: Book 1: Chapter 4 - Follow the Death [Part 1]

"The glory and prosperity of my life was as good as a single cup of sake. My life of forty-nine years is passed like a dream. I know not what life is; nor death. Both Heaven and Hell are left behind. I stand in the moonlit dawn; free from clouds of attachment." - Uesugi Kenshin, 1530-1578.

"Let's do this," repeated the young man, the words leaving his mouth before he could fully appreciate how stupid they sounded. Not because they were wrong, exactly. They were, in one sense, perfectly appropriate words. They belonged to action films, competitive matches, team comms, and perhaps a person about to climb a difficult wall. They did not belong to a filthy, hungry, recently displaced professional gamer standing in an ancient market.

Several of the armed men stared at him and one of them snorted dismissively. The man on the barrel looked at him and Shimon held his stare because looking away would be a sign of weakness. The broad fellow in the short coat marked with the strange stepped-triangle symbol, looked down at him with a professional cheer that had probably seen several dozen men to their untimely deaths.

"Good!" the man shouted.

"Good, good. A spirited one!" The young man immediately felt a wave of regret. The crowd, however, seemed to accept this as a reasonable interpretation of events: spirited. That was a much better category than lost and terrified. Spirited young warriors could be stupid. They could be awkward. They could even say strange things. The man on the barrel clapped again.

"Those with sharp swords and empty purses, come forward. Those with debts, come forward. The client pays advance coin now. Road expenses and final reward upon return. Proof required." A loose cluster of men gathered near the barrel. Shimon joined them because he had already crossed the social point of no return. Walking away now would be worse than never having stepped forward at all. A pair of young men came first, brothers by the look of them.

Both were in their early twenties, though the younger might have been nineteen. They were similarly built, wiry and strong in the way of men who had spent their lives outdoors without too many comforts. Their armor was mismatched, their sandals muddy, their hair tied back with more enthusiasm than care. One wore a cracked jingasa hat pushed too far back on his head; the other had tied a strip of red cloth around one arm. The older brother grinned at Shimon as though they were already old friends.

"Looks like a tall one is joining," he quipped.

"Tall means easy to see when fangs and blades start flying," said the younger.

"Ha! And a bigger shield to hide behind one," the older added with a twinkle in his eye. The younger considered this, then nodded at this profound piece of wisdom. Shimon wanted to dislike them on principle, but their good humor was so open and undisciplined that disliking them felt like kicking a dog for wagging its tail. Behind them stood a much older warrior, perhaps in his forties, which in this world meant he was a veteran of violence.

He had a weathered face, a short beard gone grey at the edges, and the particular expression of a man who considered most speech an admission of weakness. His armor was worn but cared for, faded from age rather than neglect. A sword rested at his hip as naturally as a hand. His eyes moved once over Shimon and seemed to find fault everywhere causing him to feel as if he were uncomfortably undressed. This one can handle himself, the young, lost man thought. The chip and the game world offered no assistance.

Beside the older man stood someone almost painfully pleasant. Mid-thirties, smiling, smartly dressed despite the mud, with his black hair arranged neatly beneath a travel hat and his clothing of better cloth than the others. His armor was light and discreet beneath a good outer robe, and to Shimon's imparted memories his swords were plain enough not to attract envy but clean and well-maintained. His smile was so friendly, so oily, that Shimon disliked it at once.

The man caught Shimon looking and bowed with exactly the correct depth to be courteous without conceding anything that could be construed as deference.

"A hard task for all of us," the other man offered.

"Apparently," Shimon answered simply after letting the biochip and his own grasp of the Japanese language find the meaning in his archaic words. The friendly man's smile widened by the smallest amount, as if the reply had amused him in some way. The last man who caught Shimon's attention was younger than the smiling man and older than the brothers, perhaps in his mid or late twenties. He stood slightly apart, quiet and composed, wearing faded clothing and armor that had perhaps once been elegant.

His jinbaori over his armor was made from good materials, but was worn thin at the hem and collar. The man's face was narrow and handsome. He had the almost exhausted and strained dignity of the rich who were learning the meaning of indignity. He looked at Shimon's swords, then at Shimon's face, then simply looked away. Not hostile, not friendly, just decidedly disinterested.

The portly man on the barrel climbed down with some effort and led the gathered volunteers to a low awning set against the side of a storehouse. Beneath it sat a scribe with a brush, an inkstone, and a ledger, bound with rawhide and made from coarse paper. Two polearm men stood behind him, looking gruff and wary.

"Name, arms, mark, and witness," the scribe said. The young brothers went first, but the older one stepped forward, cutting him off. He puffed out his chest, and announced, "Kume Tarō, spear and sword."

"Mostly spear," the younger blurted. Tarō cuffed him lightly across the back of the head.

"Spear and sword." The scribe wrote without looking impressed. The younger brother bounced forward with the energy of a man waiting for a festival rather than a jaunt through a forest filled with demon-like monsters.

"Kume Jirō, spear, knife, and my elder brother," he joked, an inane grin on his wife.

"An elder brother is not a weapon," noted the scribe, looking vaguely annoyed. Jirō's grin widened.

"He hits harder than most." Stolen novel; please report. The scribe stared at him blankly until Jirō's expression grew awkward. It seemed the tired-looking scribe was well schooled in dealing with the"humorous" types. The older samurai came next. He did not bow. He did not perform. He simply stepped forward and declared, "Kuroda Genzō."

"Arms?" asked the scribe in his bored voice. Genzō looked at him. The scribe's brush hovered for a moment before he sighed.

"Sword," the scribe concluded.

"Spear?" Genzō tapped the yari resting against his shoulder.

"Spear," the scribe added quickly. The smiling man followed with the ease of a guest joining a tea gathering.

"Mizuno Sōbei," he said warmly.

"Sword, short sword, bow when needed, and a humble willingness to assist."

"Assist with what?" the scribe asked. Mizuno gave an easy smile.

"Whatever earns the full payment." Several men chuckled, but Shimon did not. Whatever joke there was had been completely lost on him. The elegant young samurai stepped forward last before him.

"Sakurai Iori," he stated. The name was spoken with a cultured softness. The scribe looked up for the first time, perhaps recognizing something about the name, then wisely wrote without comment.

"Arms?"

"Sword and bow." His voice was calm, and Shimon noticed that unlike several men present, Iori did not need to touch either weapon to remind people that he possessed them. Then it was Shimon's turn. This was where, in a sane world, he would give a fake name. However, the problem was that Shimon had never been good at improvising under social pressure. Shimon swallowed unconsciously.

"Ayanokouji Shimon," he declared with as much confidence and gravitas as he could. There was a very small change in the air. Not much, but the name landed differently than the others. The brothers exchanged a glance. Mizuno Sōbei's smile did not move, but his eyes sharpened. Sakurai Iori looked back at him with renewed interest. Even the scribe paused. Of course, Shimon thought. O f course my stupid family name is a problem. Of course.

"Ayanokouji? Bit far from your clan lands aren't you?" the scribe mused. The chip translated the tone as uncertainty-status query-suspicion. Useless thing. Shimon's brain began sprinting. In modern Japan, his surname had sounded old-fashioned and overdecorated, like something attached to a character out of fiction. Here, in this impossible Sengoku-like nightmare, it probably came with a bloodline, a claim, and possibly enemies. He lowered his gaze just enough to seem either modest or evasive.

Both, he suspected, were safer than outright panic.

"A fallen branch," he declared with as much confidence as he could muster. The words were a thin shield, but once they had left his mouth he decided to defend them with silence. A fallen branch. That sounded feudal and dramatic. It implied history while providing none. It was, in short, very good and sort of believable nonsense. Sakurai 's mouth twitched faintly, Kuroda's eyes narrowed, and Sōbei just gave out an appreciative little hum.

"Arms?" asked the scribe.

"Spear," Shimon said.

"Sword. Short sword."

"And mark, you have a kaō?" the scribe inquired, turning the ledger toward him. Shimon looked down at the contract and thought for a moment. A kaō was a unique, abstract design, a cursive flourish combined with a person's real name. It was also something Shimon had yet to create. Remembering that small tidbit of lore, he shook his head and instead nodded toward the inkstone—the suzuri. The scribe nodded in return. Ayanokouji pressed his thumb into the black liquid as he looked over the contract.

It was not a contract in the modern sense. There were no numbered clauses, no definitions section, no liability waiver, no binding arbitration agreement. Instead, there were columns of brush-written names, marks, payments, witness seals, and a short block of formal text that the chip helped to translate in fragments. Service under witness of the Adventurer's Za, advance payment accepted, road food provided, proof to be brought, and spoils reported.

Client not responsible for injury, loss, curse, devouring madness, disappearance, or spiritual stain was what the chip enigmatically translated.

"Devouring madness," he whispered. The scribe looked up. Shimon cleared his throat and looked away.

"Nothing." The contract was, essentially, a formality. It existed not to protect him, but to record that he had knowingly entered the mouth of danger in exchange for money. It was like clicking agree on terms of service before playing a game for the first time, except here the terms of service mentioned being eaten. He pressed his thumb, making his mark. But, he decided, that was probably not enough. Sometimes the greater the deceit, the more believable it becomes.

And, the greatest of lies are buttressed by details.

"Brush," he asked and the scribe gestured for him to go ahead and take it. So, Shimon took it. He could write his name. Of course he could write his name. He was not illiterate. But this required more than just a statement of identity, it required a certain uniqueness. For a moment his hand hovered uselessly. The characters of his own name seemed to split into too many things as he remembered his grandmother giving some tips on how to write beautifully.

It would be befitting, now that he thought about it, as a man who claimed the Ayanokouji name. The brush tip trembled slightly. Finally, Shimon breathed out and wrote. It was not beautiful, but it was serviceable as the chip helped guide his hand into the archaic forms of the kanji of this period. The end result, thanks to a corporation's investment in him, was legible enough. The scribe did not laugh, which Shimon counted as a victory. This display, perhaps more than his arms and armor, gave him credence.

The scribe sanded the ink, pressed a small seal near the entry, then counted out the advance; three small coins, some dried rice, and a strip of salted something wrapped in leaves. The young man took it all. Kuroda Genzō looked at Shimon.

"You're green." It was not a question. Shimon had been called many things in his life; Cheater, prodigy. corporate shill, tryhard, half-Japanese, weird, lucky. Bot, once, by an anonymous account after a bad match, which he had pretended not to see and then thought about for nine days. But green was a first, and green was difficult to deny.

"Everyone starts somewhere," Shimon said.

"Most start before wearing the two swords." That landed a bit too close and Shimon's fingers tightened around his spear. He could lie. He could say he had fought in three battles, trained under seven masters, killed a bear with a kitchen knife, and studied the secret spear of a mountain temple. The problem was that lies invited follow-up questions. So he said nothing, letting the silence do its usual work. Kuroda Genzō's cool expression did not change, but something in his eyes shifted.

Perhaps he thought silence meant discipline. Perhaps he thought it meant arrogance. Perhaps he simply could not be bothered to press further. Mizuno Sōbei stepped in smoothly.

"Master Kuroda, surely there is no shame in youth. A good lord favors bold men, does he not?"

"A good lord favors men who know which end of the spear bites," Genzō said. Jirō looked at Shimon's spear.

"At least he's holding it right." Tarō nodded.

"Better than Rokubei held his. Remember? He had it upside down until the levy captain hit him."

"That was because Rokubei was drunk," his brother returned, his voice feigning tiredness at this old, worn joke.

"He is always drunk," Tarō joked back, causing both of them to laugh. Shimon decided that he liked the pair in the same way one might like a bonfire inside a wooden house. Cheerful, warm, and probably dangerous to be near for too long. The Za official conferred with the scribe, then with a man Shimon had not noticed before. The newcomer had been sitting beneath another awning, partly concealed behind the movement of servants and guards.

He was not old, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, but he carried himself with the weary importance of someone accustomed to other people lifting things for him. His robe was dark and fine, his hair arranged carefully beneath a small cap, and his face was smooth in the way of men who did not spend their lives working under a harsh sun. A small lacquered traveling chair waited nearby, with two broad-backed bearers resting beside it.

Four guards stood around him in disciplined stillness, spears upright, swords at their hips. The client, Shimon realized.