"Kageyori?!"
One Kamakura soldier stared at Akira as if seeing a ghost rise from the grave. His arrogant face drained pale, lips parted.
"Impossible…" he muttered. "That clan was wiped out."
His companion snorted, though unease flickered in his eyes. "Then let's make sure the rest disappears for good."
All five drew swords in unison.
Steel gleamed under the slanting late-afternoon sun. The wind carried sweat, dust, and the fresh scent of blood from the bound woman's whipped back.
Akira stood calm.
He did not raise his blade immediately. His hand moved slowly to the katana hilt, fingers gripping steadily. Breath even, like before old courtyard drills, in a house now ash.
Behind him, the woman fought trembling. Wrists still bound, breath ragged.
"Attack!" one soldier barked.
Two charged front with rough yells, one flanked left, the other two circled to surround.
Akira shifted half a step right.
First slash aimed straight at his neck. He parried at an angle, steel clashing, sparks flying. Without pause, he twisted his wrist, shoved the blade aside, and countered short and precise. His katana tip sliced the attacker's arm.
A scream broke.
The second came from the left, wild and furious. Akira ducked; sharp wind grazed his hair. He spun, elbowed the man's ribs, staggering him, then slashed upward from below. Blood sprayed the dry earth.
Three remained.
"Surround him! No space!" shouted an older soldier, likely their leader.
They moved together.
But before the circle closed,
Shink!
A shadow flashed from the right. Movement unhurried, unexaggerated. Ryuma's sword drew like silent lightning.
One soldier lunged at his back.
Ryuma sidestepped a single pace, turned lightly. "Young man," he said calmly, almost scolding a careless nephew, "never turn your back on an elder."
His cut was clean.
The soldier fell before realizing what happened.
The last two hesitated. Sweat ran down their temples; sword hands shook.
"He really is Kageyori…" one muttered.
Akira stepped forward. "You can still leave."
No reply except desperate attack.
The fight was brief but dense. Steel rang fast, steps shifted like deadly dance. One soldier grazed Akira's shoulder. Heat spread; blood seeped through cloth.
He did not retreat.
In one near-silent moment, Akira's and Ryuma's blades moved together, crossing, disarming the final two. Bodies dropped almost simultaneously.
Silence fell.
Only heavy breathing and wind rustling leaves.
Akira stood still several seconds, staring at the five sprawled forms. No pride. No triumph. Only bitter awareness: his name had been spoken again.
Ryuma sheathed his sword. "They'll report. If not these five, others will."
"Yes." Akira bowed his head briefly. "From now on, we're no longer just wanderers."
He knelt beside the woman and cut her wrist ropes. Freed, she swayed. Akira caught her quickly.
"Easy," he said softly. "You're safe now."
She tried to stand, but knees buckled. Back crisscrossed with welts, some still bleeding.
"We need to leave before another patrol," Ryuma said.
Akira nodded. He lifted her carefully, her body light from exhaustion and hunger, placed her on a horse, then mounted behind to support her.
They left without looking back.
---
Near dusk, thin smoke rose behind the trees.
"Village," Ryuma murmured.
They entered a modest settlement. Wooden houses stood neatly. From small workshops came hammer strikes on iron and wood. Sawdust mixed with hot metal scent filled the air.
Villagers froze at their arrival.
Strangers rarely came to Ogura.
A middle-aged man stepped forward. "What happened?"
"She was attacked by Kamakura troops," Akira said directly. "We need a healer."
The man's face hardened. "Hazuki!" he called toward the end house. "Bring a stretcher!"
Several moved quickly, no questions. Some led the horse, others cleared the way.
Inside a house smelling of herbs and salve, an elderly white-haired woman met them. Eyes sharp, movements brisk.
"Lay her here," she said.
Akira lowered the woman gently.
The healer checked wounds, applied ointment, cleaned dried blood. "Whippings. Many. No broken bones. Who did this?"
"Kamakura," Ryuma answered.
She clicked her tongue softly. "Happening more often."
Akira waited outside until night fell. A young villager brought water.
"Your wound," he said awkwardly, pointing at Akira's shoulder.
"Not deep."
The youth helped clean it. "You fought them? Five?"
"Yes."
The youth paused. "Few dare."
"I don't feel brave," Akira said honestly.
---
Days passed.
The woman could finally sit without shaking. Back wounds scabbed, though scars would remain.
One morning she stepped out and saw Akira under a tree, rewrapping the cloth on his sword hilt.
"You always hold that?" she asked quietly.
Akira glanced up. "Habit."
She stood a few paces away. "My name is Yuna. Yuna Hazuno."
"Akira."
"Akira who?"
The question slowed passing villagers.
Akira met her eyes several seconds, then answered, "Akira Kageyori."
Like wind suddenly stopping, silence fell.
"Kageyori?" an old man whispered. "Thought they were gone."
Yuna looked at him differently. "You're from that clan?"
"Used to be," Akira said calmly.
Yuna sat slowly on a wooden bench. "My village was burned," she said without preamble. "We paid last year's tribute. This year they came again, demanded double. Village head begged for time. They refused. Houses torched as warning."
Her voice stayed flat, too even.
"They said it's orders from above," she continued. "Since Emperor Go-Horikawa took the throne… everything changed. Heavier taxes. Tighter watch. They call it stability."
Ryuma, leaning on a post, snorted softly. "Stability for whom?"
Yuna stared at the ground. "We just want to live quietly."
That afternoon, Ogura's village head approached Akira.
"Thank you for your help," he said politely. "But your name is dangerous here."
"I know."
"Better stay a while. Until things calm."
Akira gave a faint smile. "When was the last time things were truly calm?"
The headman said nothing.
---
Night fell slowly.
In the small borrowed house, Akira and Ryuma opened Morinobu Kageyori's scrolls.
Oil lamp light swayed gently.
Akira read slowly. The letters were not mere war reports. Correspondence with Kyoto nobles, copies of Emperor Go-Toba's speeches, his father's personal notes.
"Listen to this," Akira said.
He read low but clear.
"Shogun Minamoto grows distant from his people. He entrusts too much to Regent Hojo Yoshitoki. This land is no longer led by the shogun's sword, but by the hidden hand behind it."
Ryuma raised an eyebrow. "Puppet."
Akira nodded faintly.
At first, Kageyori stood with Kamakura. Morinobu believed in promised order after war. But reports of excessive taxes, land seizures, and village violence kept arriving.
"Father wrote of meeting Yoshitoki," Akira said. "He saw decisions made without regard for the people."
He read again.
"If we stay silent, we share the guilt. Better to lose with honor than live long with an empty heart."
The room fell quiet.
"So your father chose Emperor Go-Toba," Ryuma said softly.
"Yes. Not for ambition. Because he felt betrayed."
Ryuma watched his nephew long. "And you? What do you feel after reading this?"
Akira stared at the small lamp flame.
Outside, Ogura lay peaceful. No whips. No shouts.
"I always thought Father acted rashly," he said finally. "Thought he dragged our clan to ruin for pride."
He exhaled quietly.
"But this… this isn't about pride."
Ryuma smiled faintly. "You're starting to understand."
Akira rolled the letter carefully.
"Father saw something he refused to pass to his children," he said softly. "He didn't want us living in fear and calling it peace."
Ryuma stood, opened the door a crack for night air.
"Wars don't always start with those thirsty for blood," he said. "Sometimes they start with those who can no longer bear injustice."
Akira rose.
He looked out at Ogura's starlit sky.
Yuna's faint voice drifted from the healer's house, talking to someone. Distant soft laughter from villagers. Simple, fragile, real life.
He clenched his fist slowly.
"Father didn't rebel for power," he said, more to himself.
He turned to Ryuma, eyes now steadier.
"Father rebelled for his people."