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Samura woke with a jolt and for the first few moments felt like a fish thrown out of water. He couldn’t even breathe.
It took several seconds for his heart to stop beating so fast, as if threatening to burst out of his chest. When his thoughts more or less settled, he realized two things. First, the nightmare was finally over, and he was not on the battlefield but somewhere at home, safe. His hands were clean, and the bones of the dead did not crunch beneath his feet. Second, he was clearly not in his own room. That was easy enough to tell by the smell of incense and the unfamiliar feel of the sheets… After returning to the dojo, he had never lit incense in his room, even though he’d been advised to try burning lavender to calm his mind — after losing his sight, his sense of smell had become too sensitive, and an excess of aromas gave him headaches. And the sheets… well, his were simply different.
They were soaked with sweat, unpleasantly damp, and Samura slowly propped himself up on one elbow. His t-shirt was drenched as well. That usually happened after the worst nightmares. When he remembered Akemura, for example. That last battle. Sometimes it happened often; sometimes he could go a whole week in peace before his subconscious reminded him of the sin they had committed — of what they had allowed that monster to do, of how they had failed to see the signs, of how they had hidden his deeds behind a veil of secrecy. Slowly, Samura touched his face. Ran his fingers over the bandages on his eyes, over the scars peeking out from under the gauze. Inori had hoped the scars would heal and be less noticeable. It was a shame he had disappointed her even here — not only had he run away, he hadn’t even managed to let his eyes heal properly.
Sometimes his hands itched to tear at his skin, to rip it open, to—
Paper rustled nearby. A third scent. Wood and sweat. Cigarettes, smoked here by only one person — and rarely at that. Shirakai-san. This was his room. Of course. He burned incense… sometimes… he had explained why, but Samura no longer remembered. Judging by the sounds, Shirakai was nearby, yet he didn’t even stir when Samura sat up in bed and tossed the blanket aside.
“Master,” he said. His voice was unpleasantly hoarse after sleep, and Samura felt like a poorly oiled, rusted mechanism trying — and failing — to work. As if he were gravely ill and couldn’t feel better no matter what. “What happened?”
He distinctly remembered falling asleep in his own room. Shirakai, judging by his voice, didn’t even turn toward him, continuing to write something. His reply was rather indifferent.
“You were screaming in your sleep.”
“I’m sorry.”
Before, he and Uruha had slept in the same room; Uruha would wake him when the nightmares began. But recently, he had left the dojo, gone to the city, and Samura had been left alone. He didn’t like burdening Uruha with this problem, but Uruha had offered it himself voluntarily, though Samura still found it deeply humiliating. He was twenty-two, and it was a student — one who hadn’t even turned eighteen that long ago — who was helping him! Why was it that a boy who had gone to war without even finishing school had no trouble dealing with nightmares, while he himself couldn’t? Couldn’t deal with himself to the point that he had run away from his wife? And he was an adult man… Disgusting. He was… just a disgusting weakling.
He should have cut out not his eyes back then, but his heart — this cowardly lump of flesh and blood.
“And you woke up and dragged me here?” an ugly smile appeared on his lips. “So much trouble.”
Pages rustled. Shirakai didn’t move.
“Yoji asked me to keep an eye on you.”
“You could’ve just kicked me. I’d have woken up.”
“You didn’t wake up when I shook you.”
“Is that so?.. You’re wasting your time on me.”
“Seiichi.”
He simply said his name sharply, and Samura immediately fell silent, lowering his head in shame.
Gradually, his skin cooled, and he began to feel cold. He should get up, dry the sheets… If it had been his own, he would’ve just ignored it and slept on the floor beside it, but this was Shirakai’s room; he needed to behave as he had been taught… Respect for elders, all that… It probably flashed through his mind why Uruha had been watching over him after the divorce. He had no other reason. Samura wasn’t that close a friend to him; Uruha said it simply out of propriety, because that was what was expected.
His legs weren’t very steady, but he stood up.
“Sorry for the trouble. I’ll change the pillowcase.”
“Leave it. I’ll do it myself.”
His fingers went cold. So Shirakai thought him so useless that he wouldn’t even let him do something that simple? Well, yes. Reasonable. From the best student he had sunk to complete nothingness. He had abandoned his wife and daughter; now he couldn’t even train properly — his hands trembled when he took up the sword. Trash. Shirakai kept him here out of pity; otherwise, he would have kicked him out long ago.
Water splashed somewhere nearby. The carp pond. Right. It would be nice to drown there. Just end this ridiculous existence. But he couldn’t even bring himself to do that. Coward.
“Sorry…”
“Seiichi, come here.”
Why, he wanted to ask. Why call me? I’ve become a complete disappointment. I won’t be able to inherit the dojo; from the best student I’ve fallen to the very bottom. But a good student was supposed to obey his master, and Samura, to his regret, couldn’t resist the habits drilled into him since childhood. Why was Shirakai doing this? Oh, right — now he would tell him: get out. You disgrace my fighting style. You’re a coward and a weakling. Get lost. You can even hang yourself. Oh, how Samura wanted to hear that! Maybe then he would finally have the courage to do it! Maybe finally—
When he knelt beside Shirakai, the old man grabbed his shirt and yanked him closer. Samura expected a slap. A blow. Anything. Something in Shirakai’s spirit. He often beat him and Uruha, but that was normal for him — that was just the kind of man he was. Only his granddaughter did he love, in his strange way.
But instead of striking him, Shirakai simply pulled him closer and put a hand on his shoulder, covering him with his sleeve.
“This reminded me of how we met,” he said. “When you were a little nimble shit, wandering around and stealing food. Remember?” Samura slowly nodded. It had been a long time, about ten years back. “Back then, it was impossible to make you behave respectfully. If not for the threat that I’d hand you over to the police, you’d never have even come to the dojo. And you’d never have discovered such talent in yourself. But even then, I knew you weren’t some indifferent bastard. And that at night you cried into your pillow because you missed your mommy.”
Their father often beat them, and their mother was the first to break. She ran away. Sometimes Samura wondered whether she regretted leaving him, but if she hadn’t even said she was going… then she probably didn’t care. Ironically, he himself had run away from his family. No better than she was. The same coward. Worse, even. At least his mother had fled from a tyrannical husband, while Samura had turned away from a loving wife and daughter.
Shirakai smelled more strongly of wood —the floor of the training hall, the incense — everything blending into a single, unmistakable scent that Samura associated with home. After all, he had lived in the dojo for almost ten years. Shirakai had, in a way, replaced his father. He beat him soundly during training, but helped with homework, even went to school if Samura got into fights. And instead of scolding him for breaking the rules, he would laugh loudly, saying, well, Seiichi, you should’ve hit him harder so he wouldn’t try again! He yelled at him for starting to smoke; they even had a serious row over it, and then he told him which brand was better so he wouldn’t pay too much for shitty cigarettes…
Good, calm times. Then, among the other students, a new little star appeared — Uruha, another child no one wanted.
A broad palm rested on Samura’s head.
“Do you think I enjoy watching my best student mutilate himself?” Samura wanted to apologize again, to touch his forehead to the floor, but Shirakai held him firmly, as if knowing what he wanted to do and not allowing it. “Watching the greatest talent in this damned dojo, whom I raised with my own hands, unable to sleep and wandering around like a living corpse? Sure, I’m a real piece of work, let’s be honest, but giving up on you like that would be too much even for me. You’re practically my finest creation. The most skilled student among a hundred failures and cowards. What kind of idiot lets gold tarnish?”
You flatter me, Samura didn’t say. It hurt, though he couldn’t understand why. Tears welled up in his eyes. He’d have to change the bandages again so the wounds wouldn’t get infected. But he couldn’t help himself. He was the same coward and weakling as the other students. He had just burned out later.
Why did Shirakai keep caring about him? Ah, probably because he was one of the few who had mastered his style. Right. Reasonable…
“No, Seiichi. What an idiot you are, huh? How did I even raise you like this?” Shirakai snapped. “It’s because I worry about you. As your teacher.”
Reading his thoughts again, was he?
When Samura had been very young — fourteen or so —he sometimes felt terribly homesick, though all that waited for him there was a tyrannical father, indifferent to his son’s fate. He told no one, showed no one. It was his small secret, a weakness he didn’t share even with Uruha, though they trusted each other deeply. But Shirakai knew anyway. Helped with everything. Was there for him. Yes, he’d been a poor teacher in many ways, but he was still the support Samura could lean on.
Even now…
So many years had passed, and he felt it again — that longing. For home. For Inori, for his daughter. But he couldn’t return. He had already run away, cut all ties. He couldn’t… just take a pure, innocent child with such filthy hands… and—
He should have truly decided back then and taken his own life along with his eyes. It would have been easier for everyone. Look at you — you even made that old bastard Shirakai-san pity you. Isn’t that selfish?
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, feeling the tears rise. “I’ve completely fallen apart. I’m a bad student.”
“Whining may be shameful for a man of your accomplishments, but it still doesn’t make you a complete weakling. War is no joke,” Shirakai said, pausing as if pondering what else to pour into this soup of important words. He had always been a proud, stubborn old hardhead, and saying things like this was clearly new to him. “That said, you’re still a coward for running away from your wife. And you’re a whole bundle of problems right now. But trust me, Seiichi, even like this, you’re still dear to people. Including an old bastard like me.”
This time, Samura didn’t answer. He simply pressed his nose harder into Shirakai’s shoulder, hiding his face. He felt like that little wretch again, caught stealing, then taken into the dojo, given warm food and clothes. The first night in a house where he didn’t have to listen in fear for the footsteps of the angry father. Back then, he had started crying, and Shirakai, apparently unprepared for that, had grown flustered; he tried to comfort him, but did a poor job of it, so he just let him cry into his shoulder and then put him to bed. Maybe his own children, like Kiri-chan, had been different. Calmer. More like the old man himself. That was why he hadn’t known what to do.
But even then, that broad hand had stroked his back as Samura swallowed his tears. Just like now.
I’m sorry, Shirakai-san. For having such a useless student. If only I were better, maybe everything would be different. Akemura wouldn’t have changed. Uruha wouldn’t have become a killer. Those people wouldn’t have died. Inori would be happy, and Iori would have a normal father.
If only I were better. But I ruin everything. Like a black cat — bringing misfortune to everyone.
He began to cry silently again, this time no longer holding back, and a wide sleeve covered him, as if hiding him from the whole world. Once more, he felt like the child Shirakai had taken off the street and given a second chance — only now he was over twenty, with a war behind him and a shameful runaway from his wife not long past. But for Shirakai, perhaps even his brilliant student would forever remain the boy he had first met.
Maybe that was why he pitied him. Who knew? Samura didn’t want to hear the answer to that question. He clenched his fingers in Shirakai’s shirt, and the old man, distracted, as if his thoughts were elsewhere, muttered:
“The main thing is not to give up. So don’t be too sad, Seiichi. After a black streak, a white one always comes. And even you will see it.”