Chapter 3

Akihiro sat in front of the hut, staring at his own hands.

The stab wound scar still stretched from his abdomen to his back. The skin had hardened, but every time he drew too deep a breath, a sharp ache reminded him of the night of flames.

Daigo Moritsune sat across from him, tossing down a handful of dried straw.

“If you want to eat without stealing,” he said flatly, “you need to learn to make something people actually need.”

Akihiro looked at the straw. “Sandals?”

“Waraji,” Daigo corrected shortly. “Straw sandals. Farmers, fishermen, even low-ranking soldiers wear them. They wear out fast, so people always buy more.”

Akihiro picked up a strand of straw and tried to imitate Daigo’s hand movements. Weaving. Twisting. Pulling the knot tight.

The straw snapped in his grip.

Daigo clicked his tongue softly. “Hah. Your hands are too tense. You’re treating it like a hoe.”

“I’ve only ever held a hoe.”

Daigo snorted faintly. “How someone like you is still alive, I’ll never know.”

Akihiro exhaled through his nose and tried again. This time he relaxed his fingers, following the rhythm of Daigo’s hands.

The sun climbed slowly. Sweat dampened their foreheads.

“Why don’t you just become a farmer?” Akihiro asked suddenly.

Daigo didn’t answer right away.

“I used to be something else,” he said at last. “Now I just survive.”

“You had a lord?”

Daigo stopped weaving. His eyes drifted toward the glittering bay in the distance.

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“He died.”

The answer was short, like a clean cut. There was no space for further questions.

Akihiro nodded quietly. He knew when to stop.

By noon, their first two pairs of waraji were finished. Not neat, but sturdy enough.

“We make twenty pairs,” Daigo said. “Tomorrow we go down to the town.”

“Which town?”

“Sagami.”

The name made Akihiro’s heart beat a little faster. It was the trading center of Miura territory, a place where samurai and merchants mingled.

He had never been there since birth. He had only ever been a village farmer.

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The next day, they carried baskets filled with waraji and several dried animal hides from Daigo’s hunts, deer and rabbit skins carefully cured.

Earlier, Daigo had also taught him how to hunt.

“Don’t chase,” Daigo had said as they moved through the forest days before. “Wait.”

Akihiro stood holding a simple bow.

“What’s the difference?”

“Animals are more patient than men. If you chase, you’ll lose.”

They hid behind brush for nearly an hour before a young deer stepped into a clearing.

“Draw your breath. Don’t hold it too long.”

The arrow flew. Not perfect, but true.

The deer collapsed after a few stumbling steps.

Akihiro stared at the animal with mixed feelings.

“You feel guilty?” Daigo asked.

“A little.”

“Good. The day you feel nothing when you kill is the day you become dangerous.”

Now the deer hide lay folded neatly in their basket.

The journey to Sagami took nearly half a day. The dirt road was crowded with traders, farmers, and a few mounted samurai.

The town was busier than Akihiro had imagined.

Wooden shops lined the streets. Kitchen smoke rose into the air. Voices overlapped in bargaining and laughter.

“Don’t talk too much,” Daigo whispered as they chose a corner to sell their goods. “Let the items and the price speak.”

It didn’t take long.

An old fisherman approached, inspecting their waraji.

“Sturdy,” he muttered. “How much?”

Daigo named the price.

“Thank you,” the fisherman said after paying.

Then came a farmer. Then two dock laborers. Even a low-ranking soldier bought two pairs.

The deer hide sold even faster. A cloth merchant bought it for lining armor.

Before the sun stood high overhead, almost all their goods were gone.

Akihiro stared at the small coins in their hands with an unfamiliar feeling.

“This feels… strange.”

“How so?”

“I didn’t till the land. I didn’t plant anything. But I earned money.”

Daigo shrugged. “The world is bigger than a field.”

Akihiro fell silent. His mother’s words echoed in his mind.

The world is larger than this field.

Suddenly, he noticed a group of samurai standing near a sake stall. The crest on their clothing clearly belonged to the Miura Clan.

His chest tightened.

“I’ll be right back,” he said quietly.

Daigo looked at him sharply. “Don’t look for trouble.”

“I just want to listen.”

Daigo didn’t answer, but his gaze showed he disliked the idea.

Akihiro moved closer slowly, pretending to examine goods at a nearby stall.

The samurai were speaking loudly enough.

“More villages burned,” one said. “This isn’t the work of ordinary bandits.”

“All in our territory,” another replied. “And no witnesses.”

“I said from the beginning, it’s the Fujiwara Clan.”

The name made Akihiro’s blood stir.

“Fujiwara Naritsune grows bolder,” the samurai continued. “Does he think we don’t notice?”

Naritsune.

Fujiwara Naritsune.

The name carved itself into Akihiro’s mind like a blade.

“I heard our daimyo has accused him of planning to betray the Shogun,” another samurai whispered.

“Yes. They say Naritsune is secretly gathering strength. Plotting against Minamoto no Sanetomo.”

“If that’s true, a great war is unavoidable.”

One of them scoffed. “I’m not worried about Fujiwara.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m worried about our own daimyo.”

They exchanged glances before one spoke softly, “Miura Yoshimura is too slow. Too cautious. Our villages burn, and we only patrol.”

The name rang clearly.

Miura Yoshimura.

“Watch your tongue,” another hissed.

“I’m only speaking the truth. The people need a decisive leader, not one who keeps waiting.”

Akihiro swallowed.

So this wasn’t random slaughter.

It was part of something larger.

He stepped back slowly and returned to Daigo.

“What did you hear?” Daigo asked without looking at him.

“Fujiwara Naritsune,” Akihiro replied quietly. “And accusations of betrayal against the Shogun.”

Daigo fell silent.

“And Miura Yoshimura is seen as weak by his own men.”

Daigo exhaled softly. “War isn’t only about power. It can also be about pride.”

They bought rice, salt, some cloth, and simple medicine before leaving town.

The road home followed a quieter forest path. Dusk began to fall, the sky turning orange.

“Do you want to kill Naritsune?” Daigo asked suddenly.

Akihiro was silent for a long time before answering.

“I just want to know why.”

“That’s a dangerous answer.”

“Why?”

“Because once you know why, you might want more than revenge.”

The evening wind grew stronger.

As they passed a narrow bend between trees, the sound of a snapping branch echoed.

Daigo stopped.

Too late.

Five men emerged from the brush. Their clothes were ragged, swords and spears in hand.

Bandits.

“Well, well,” one of them sneered. “An old man and a skinny boy. Lucky day for us.”

“We’re only small traders,” Daigo said calmly.

“Traders who just came from town,” the bandit replied. “Hand over the money.”

Daigo slowly lowered the basket.

Akihiro felt his heart pounding.

“Run if you can,” Daigo whispered without turning.

“And you?”

“Don’t ask.”

But before Daigo could move, one of the bandits lunged at Akihiro.

His sword raised high.

Akihiro froze.

He remembered the blade that had pierced his stomach.

His body was not fully healed. The wound still ached whenever he moved too quickly.

He knew he wouldn’t be fast enough.

The sword came down.

Akihiro closed his eyes.

Resigned.

The bandit shouted, his face twisted with hatred.

“Take this!”

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