Tetsunosuke went first to the instructor, Dewa Nagaharu.
“Master Dewa. What kind of man is Lord Tachibana? Why does he refuse to take disciples so stubbornly?”
“I do not know well,” Dewa replied. “However, among us, he was feared under the nickname ‘Gensan the Demon.’ He always bore a fearsome face like a Yasha demon. Whenever a suemono-giri was performed in the Castle for the Shogun’s inspection, it was usually Lord Tachibana who carried it out.”
“What is suemono-giri?”
“The test-cutting of the corpses of executed criminals.”
(That ‘Gensan the Buddha’? A man who smiles so gently and speaks so politely… Why would such a task be entrusted to him?)
“While my late master, Master Sakurai, took pleasure in mingling with master swordsmen from various domains, Lord Tachibana avoided people as much as possible.”
“What was the relationship between Master Sakurai and Lord Tachibana?”
“Hmm. Both were originally gokenin retainers of the Tokugawa and parishioners of Zen’in-ji. Master Sakurai passed away first. After that, Lord Tachibana rose to the position of Junior Councilor (Wakadoshiyori), but then suddenly resigned.”
“Both Lord Tachibana and you, Master Dewa, have said that Master Sakurai was the superior swordsman compared to Lord Tachibana. What does that mean?”
“Well now… I myself have never seen the two of them clash. Or rather, Lord Tachibana possessed an extreme aversion to letting others see his swordsmanship. Master Sakurai’s fencing was magnificent. He was tall and powerfully built—a swordsman in every sense, looking formidable at a glance. His stance was the central shōgan guard, an uninhibited, self-styled fencing—though calling it ‘self-taught’ might be misleading. He had taken techniques from various schools and refined them into his own style. Lord Tachibana’s swordsmanship, however, belongs to an isolated school unlike any other. I hear it is the culmination of quick-draw and iaijutsu-like techniques.”
“I do not understand,” Tetsunosuke said. “I can understand that Master Sakurai was strong. But if Lord Tachibana belongs to an isolated school that never shows its sword to anyone, how can anyone know he is second only to Master Sakurai? There would be no way to judge.”
“That is true,” Dewa admitted. “However, it was said among the world that if a match were decided in a single initial strike, Lord Tachibana would be stronger with his lightning speed. But if it turned into a prolonged clash of two or three strikes, Master Sakurai would likely prevail. For that reason, people considered them equals.”
Next, Tetsunosuke questioned his father.
“Truth be told, I also went to speak with Master Dewa after our last talk, and I heard much the same things,” Shinzaburō said. “Master Dewa told me that since my son wished to become Lord Genshichirō’s disciple and seemed fully resolved, he wrote the letter of introduction. But he warned that Lord Genshichirō is no ordinary man, so I should be prepared for any eventuality.
In my view, when a martial artist refuses to take disciples, there is a profound reason for it. It is likely not because he hates people or dislikes interacting with society. He may want a disciple, but fears bringing trouble upon the student or his family. You are being tested by Lord Tachibana. Gauge him in your own way. And if he grants you permission to become his disciple, then become one. I may be repeating myself, but so long as you conduct yourself honorably without tarnishing the name of the Tachiki family, I do not mind even if you die before me. Keep that, at least, firmly in mind.”
In the end, Tetsunosuke visited Genshichirō Tachibana’s tenement once more.
“I see,” Genshichirō said. “If you go so far as to say all that, then I shall listen. Are you the eldest son?”
“No. I am the second son.”
“Will your elder brother succeed Lord Shinzaburō?”
“That is correct.”
“Yet your brother might suddenly die of illness or some other cause. In that event, you would have to succeed the family.”
“If my brother dies, my younger sister will take an adopted husband. I do not care when I die.”
“No, no—I would be in trouble if you died so easily. If a disciple dies before his master, what was the point of teaching him?”
“That… is true.”
“Hmm. So you came here after discussing matters to that extent with your father?”
“Yes. Precisely so.”
“Then let me ask you: why do you wish to become strong with the sword?”
“To fight as a warrior in battle.”
“Battle?” Genshichirō mused. “Going into battle requires more than just being strong with a sword. You would be better off training in archery, the spear, or the matchlock gun. A sword is of little use in war. As the son of a hatamoto, you are a senior officer. You may even become a chief retainer. As a chief retainer, you do not fight yourself; you must assist your lord and command subordinates. If you wish to serve your lord and nation, forget about martial arts altogether. You simply want to play at sword fighting, do you not?”
Tetsunosuke bit his lip tightly. It was an indisputable argument.
“Even to inherit a retainer’s post, one must know the way of the sword as a samurai’s proper refinement.”
“Then you should continue your training at Dewa Dojo as before. Mingle with people and forge your spirit. A large dojo with many disciples like that one is far better suited for that. It will also cultivate your understanding of the world. If you were to become my disciple, I would take no others, so it would offer you no social education whatsoever.”
A single disciple. A sword that served no purpose as a samurai’s refinement. Slowly, doubt and anxiety grew in Tetsunosuke’s chest. If he wanted to decline now, he still could.
“Master,” Tetsunosuke spoke up. “Was it not because of your skill with the sword that you were selected to become a Junior Councilor? Is that not the ultimate refinement, the very honor of a samurai?
In this world, most people advance to become Rōjū elders or Junior Councilors merely through connections—because they are daimyō of powerful domains, or from collateral or hereditary families. Yet you were elevated to the Shogunate cabinet solely through your swordsmanship. It was an extraordinary appointment, was it not? If you take no other disciples and I become your sole student, I would become your successor. Would that be so wrong? It would be a tragedy for your swordsmanship to perish with you alone. Do you not feel so yourself?”
“It is true that I served the Shogun through my sword,” Genshichirō said softly, as if speaking to himself. “Because of it, I rose from an unassigned status to a yoriki officer, then a personal attendant (soba-yōnin), and finally to Junior Councilor.”
“Then please teach me that sword! Born as a son of a samurai, I wish above all to serve through martial arts. I beg of you!”
“Martial arts, you say…” Genshichirō muttered quietly. “What I practice is likely somewhat different from what you imagine. And the work of a Junior Councilor was likely not what you imagine, either.”
“How is it different?”
To break away from Tetsunosuke’s intense, staring gaze, Genshichirō stood up, took the letter of introduction from the altar, and looked down at it for the first time.
“Is your name Tetsunosuke?”
“Yes.”
“Tetsunosuke… What do you think a samurai is?”
It was a sudden, unexpected question.
“A samurai is… a samurai is one who serves his lord with his very life. One who is prepared to throw away his life for his lord.”
“I see. Then I, too, must be a samurai.”
For a moment, Genshichirō and Tetsunosuke looked at each other with faint smiles. They were not smiling because anything was amusing. When a samurai commits seppuku, he does not cry. He does not rage. He does not grieve. Therefore, he smiles. It was a smile that could only be made by one prepared for death.
“Show me your sword.”
At his command, Tetsunosuke unbuckled his sword and offered it to Genshichirō.
“A beautiful blade.”
“It is a prized masterwork forged by the second-generation Izumi-no-Kami Kanesada—a treasured heirloom passed down in my family.”
“The swordsmith’s skill is exceptional as well, and the mountings are lavish. A feast for the eyes.”
“You flatter me.”
“Do you use polishing powder on it as well?”
“Yes. I polish it every day, apply oil, and occasionally use powder to remove rust.”
“I see. You are quite diligent. However… one cannot kill a man with this sword.”
“Why is that?”
“A blade is not capable of cutting simply because it is sharp and finely polished. What kind of sword do you think truly cuts well?”
“That is…”
“Look at my sword.”
With that, Genshichirō picked up a sword from the alcove (tokonoma) and placed it before Tetsunosuke.
When Tetsunosuke pulled the blade from its scabbard, he was shocked to find that the blade was not polished at all. It was rough and coarse. While Tetsunosuke’s sword was smooth as a mirror without a single stain, Genshichirō’s sword looked as though it had merely been roughly ground with the coarsest whetstone. It had an edge, but it was chipped and notched in various places.
“Is this… a sword that cuts?”
“Indeed. Your sword may inflict a severe wound, but it cannot truly cut a man down. Do you understand why?”
“…”
“Very well. When you understand, come again. You seem to have some promise, but you know nothing yet of samurai, nor of swords. I am always here, so come visit whenever you wish.”
“Thank you… I understand. I shall certainly return before long.”
With that, Tetsunosuke bowed out and departed dejectedly from Genshichirō’s home that day.
That night, Tetsunosuke told his father, Shinzaburō, everything. His father seemed to sense something; his face clouded with a strange sadness, but soon he spoke decisively.
“Master Tachibana is indeed the man I took him for. As for what he said to you, you must think and arrive at the answer yourself. It is not something for me to explain. Mark my words: you are my son, a boy born to a samurai family. Once you have chosen to learn the sword under a master, you must never disobey his teachings. Disobeying your master’s teachings is disobeying your father’s. Listen well—even if it means your death, you must never defy your master. They say a wise man changes his mind like a panther changes its spots, but a samurai, too, must be prepared to become an entirely different person overnight. Prepare your resolve so that you will not panic when that moment comes. Leave all matters regarding our domain to me.”
For three days, Tetsunosuke pondered relentlessly, but he could not understand at all. A sword that cuts, and a sword that does not. His father had offered no further hints. Tetsunosuke wished to meet an acquaintance of the late Master Sakurai—Genshichirō’s former comrade—to hear his thoughts. However, Master Sakurai’s family line had already ended, and no one knew where his relatives were. There was only Sakurai’s grave, standing quietly like that of a forgotten soul within the grounds of Zen’in-ji. He was at a complete loss.
Although he had been told not to return until he understood, Tetsunosuke headed once more for Genshichirō’s tenement.
“What? You still haven’t figured it out?”
“Please, even the smallest clue would suffice.”
“In that case, go to a kappō restaurant named Sakaeya near Yanagibashi Bridge, at the western end of Ryōgoku Bridge over the Kanda River. If you tell them Genshichirō sent you, they should let you in.”
“Uh… yes, sir.”
Puzzled more than ever, Tetsunosuke walked to Yanagibashi Bridge, where the Kanda River joined the Great Sumida River. Searching along the riverbank, he easily found the tavern bearing the sign Sakaeya. Stepping inside, he was shocked to see Genshichirō’s daughter working as a waitress.
“Ah! What a surprise… Are you working in a place like this?”
“I am.”
“Hey, Osato! Leave the idle talk for later! Assorted sashimi platter on a wooden boat for table two!”
“Yes, right away!”
She single-handedly lifted a large boat-shaped sashimi platter from the kitchen counter and carried it up a steep ladder-like staircase to the second-floor tatami room. Watching her, Tetsunosuke held his breath, terrified she might spill it.
On her way back down, a customer called out to order a flask of warm sake. She warmed the sake herself, pinched the neck of the bottle with her fingers, and hurried back upstairs.
“Don’t just stand there dazed! Go clear the dirty plates!”
“Yes, sir!”
The mountain of stacked large plates looked heavy. They really should make those stairs a little gentler, Tetsunosuke thought. She’s going to hurt herself badly one of these days.
The establishment was built much like a standard boat-house inn. The first floor housed the entryway, counter, and kitchen, while guests dined and drank in the second-floor rooms overlooking the Sumida River.
Uncertain whether he should go up to the second floor or wait to be seated, Tetsunosuke stood frozen until Osato set a tray with a small side dish and tea onto the raised wooden threshold (kamachi) connecting the counter and kitchen. It was an unspoken instruction to sit there. Since he hadn’t even stated his purpose for coming, he had no choice. He sat on the edge of the threshold, figuring he could initiate the conversation later once the shop quieted down. Not being shown to a private room clearly meant he was not being treated as a proper customer. Osato bustled back and forth right in front of him; she seemed to be the only waitress.
From his seat, he had a full view of the chefs in the kitchen gutting large fish like sea bream and yellowtail with heavy deba cleavers, while beside them another chef sliced fillets paper-thin with a long yanagiba knife.
“Young man, shall I press some masa sushi for you? Fresh catch today—lively as can be.”
“Ah, yes, please.”
The yellowtail-like fish was known in Edo as masa—a Japanese amberjack (hiramasa).
The chef deftly shaped the seasoned rice with his hands, placed the raw slice of masa on top, and lined them up on a wooden cutting board serving as a plate.
As Tetsunosuke picked up the sushi with his fingers and ate, Osato stood leaning against the wall of the dirt floor, gazing quietly at him. Had she caught a break? Would it be alright to speak to her now?
“Is your name Osato?”
“It is.”
“You seem terribly busy.”
“Please don’t mind me.”
Perhaps she had a prickly personality. Even if he asked her, it seemed unlikely she would offer any clues.
“Osato-san… if I may ask, how much do you know about what kind of man your father is?”
“He is a hitokiri—a manslayer, isn’t he?”
The startling word spilled casually from her cute mouth. Naturally, as a master swordsman, he would have killed men. Still, it was a chillingly grim way to put it.
“Pardon me for asking, but you do not seem to have a mother. Did she pass away early?”
“I was raised in the home of a man named Seīchirō Sakurai,” Osato replied. “I thought he was my father, but about twelve years ago, he died suddenly. It was then that the mother who raised me confessed that she was not my real mother, nor was Seīchirō my real father. She told me I was actually the daughter of a man named Tachibana, and that Tachibana’s wife had died shortly after giving birth to me. Since a man living alone could not raise a child, they—having no children of their own—took me in as their adopted daughter. But with her husband dead, she wished to return to her hometown to live out her remaining years in peace, so she told me to return to the Tachibana house. I was about four or five years old at the time.”
I see, Tetsunosuke thought. Then Osato must be about seventeen or eighteen now. Regardless, it was strange that Sakurai’s name had come up once again.
“What do you know about your adoptive father, Sakurai?”
“Well… I heard he was a manslayer, just like my father.”
Aha. Tetsunosuke felt as though the pieces were beginning to fall into place. Sakurai and Genshichirō Tachibana were fellow manslayers—working together as covert agents for the Shogunate.
He wondered how this girl felt about her father working as a manslayer. Or perhaps she only knew the word hitokiri without understanding the grim reality of it.
“Tetsunosuke-sama, were you born and raised in Hita?”
“Ah, yes.”
“What kind of place is it?”
“Hmm. It’s a beautiful place. A rural town surrounded by mountains. The air is crisp, and no matter what you eat, the rice is delicious.”
“And how do you find Edo?”
“Well… I’ve only just arrived, so I can’t say for sure. But there are stray dogs and cats everywhere, it’s cluttered, the river water smells stagnant, and the sea breeze mixes with a foul, ditch-like stench. The town smells of raw garbage, and the people walking around reek of grime and sweat. On top of that, there’s the stench of horse dung, cow dung, dog and cat droppings, nightsoil… It’s a place where all sorts of foul odors mix together into a fiercely strange smell.”
“My goodness… Do you mean there are no good smells in Edo at all?”
“There are,” Tetsunosuke said. “The smell of broiled eel, the incense burned in temples. And… well, never mind.”
He had been on the verge of saying that the scent of face powder on Edo women was far nicer than in the countryside, but caught himself in time.
“On top of that, the air lately is terribly dry. It hardly ever rains, and the dust is terrible.”
“Winter in the Kanto region is like that everywhere. But the food is delicious, isn’t it? Even customers from the Kamigata region who come to this shop say that Edo has become quite a place for gourmets lately—especially around Ryōgoku, Asakusa, and Yanagibashi.”
“I suppose so. My father also said Ryōgoku is the first place country samurai go to play when they visit. The food is indeed decent enough.”
“What did you find most delicious?”
“In this shop?”
“No, in all of Edo.”
“The buckwheat noodles (soba), I suppose. There is no soba this good in the Western provinces. They have soba there, but it’s nothing more than thin stewed udon or boiled-over sōmen—soggy and limp. And the dipping sauce is far too sweet.”
“Oh, is that so?”
Talking about nothing but food with Osato would get him nowhere. Why did Master Tachibana tell me to come to a place like this? Surely he didn’t mean for me to just chat with Osato, Tetsunosuke thought. Looking over at the kitchen, he saw that the lunchtime rush had subsided. Having finished serving most of the customers, the cooks were all using their free time to sharpen their knives in their own ways.
Then, it suddenly hit him. Of course! Master Tachibana wanted to tell me that a sword, after all, is no different from a cook’s kitchen knife.
Tetsunosuke forced the remaining sushi down his throat with a gulp of green tea, paid his bill, and ran all the way back to the tenement. Genshichirō was there as usual, sitting alone, playing Go against himself while reading a book of opening moves.
“You’re back terribly fast,” Genshichirō said. “It was a good shop, wasn’t it? You could have taken your time to enjoy some sushi or eel.”
“No, Master, I understand now!” Tetsunosuke replied. “You meant that if a famous blade is polished too beautifully, one hesitates to use it out of fear of ruining it. Thus, when a moment of truth comes, one fails, gets injured, or fails to strike down the enemy—that is what you meant, isn’t it?”
“Hahaha! Well, something like that,” Genshichirō chuckled. “Sharpen your sword yourself every day. It doesn’t matter if you’re bad at it. Even if your rough sharpening causes a few small nicks, it won’t make much difference to the cutting edge. A sword only needs to cut. The samurai of the Warring States period all washed away the blood and fat themselves every day, and sharpened their own blades. They used their swords every day and maintained them every night. It’s no different from the kitchen of a riverside inn. Only by keeping it close to your person and using it constantly will it serve its purpose in a crisis. Now then—sharpen your sword right here, right now.”
Genshichirō pointed to a whetstone resting in the dirt-floor entryway. Tetsunosuke flinched internally. Yet, his father’s words echoed in his mind: Never defy your master’s teachings.
The surface of his blade, beautiful like a magnificent piece of craftsmanship, was brutally scraped away. It turned into a lusterless, rough edge—just like a cook’s knife in a kitchen. A wave of sadness washed over him.
“Very well. Shall we go for a test cut, then?”
“On a dead body?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Genshichirō laughed.
Leaving the rear tenement of Kodenmachō, he led Tetsunosuke to Mount Matsuchi in Asakusa, into a thicket overlooking the Sumida River.
“Around here should do,” Genshichirō said. “Have you ever performed a test cut?”
“No, never.”
“Well, no matter. I shall teach you from scratch. Do not cut dead wood; it will chip the blade. Cut live wood. While you are unaccustomed, try thin branches first, then gradually move to thicker ones. Bamboo and grass are harder and more difficult than wood, so avoid them for now. Also, when slashing diagonally down from top right to bottom left, be careful not to cut your own left thigh. Do not swing by pivoting from the wrist; swing down in a parallel arc.”
Timidly, Tetsunosuke began cutting through tree branches. Once he got the hang of it, he tried a slightly thicker branch, but the blade failed to cut through and got stuck in the wood. When he tried to force it out, the sword bent out of shape. Now it wouldn’t even fit back into its scabbard. What should he do? How could he excuse himself to his father?
“When a thing like this happens, you just put it back like so,” Genshichirō said.
Genshichirō stepped on Tetsunosuke’s blade with his foot and bent it in the opposite direction, straightening it out.
“Those who aren’t used to wielding a sword daily almost always bend them,” Genshichirō remarked. “Some even carry their swords home unsheathed because it won’t fit the scabbard. Swords bend—that is their nature. A good sword bends, but a bad sword snaps completely, becoming useless. If it bends, just straighten it out. Straighten it enough so it fits into the scabbard. Listen to me: I may repeat myself, but a sword is ultimately a tool for cutting flesh. Flesh is flesh, but this is a kitchen knife made for cutting human flesh. No matter how famous a blade is, it is meaningless if it cannot cut a man down.
Foolish men boast that their blade is a priceless treasure capable of cutting down not just men, but gods or Buddhas—anything that stands in its way. But that is utterly pointless. Whether it be the blade or the art of the sword, so long as it can kill a man, that is more than enough.”
About ten days passed after that, for Genshichirō had said, “I have a matter to consult with the Shogun. Come again in ten days.”
“Eat dinner at my place tonight,” Genshichirō offered. Thus, Tetsunosuke waited while Osato, who had returned from Yanagibashi, prepared the evening meal.
Tetsunosuke had nothing particular to do. Osato went outside holding a bucket to buy tofu from a vendor. The tofu seller, carrying his shoulder pole into the alley, courted her endlessly before giving up and leaving. Watching this, the women gathered around the communal well surrounded Osato, teasing her about something. Then a fish monger carrying his own pole arrived, trying to dump his morning catch at bargain prices before night fell. Taking advantage of the wives’ distracted attention, Osato finally slipped away. Tetsunosuke gazed absentmindedly at the whole scene.
Washing the rice and cooking it in the pot was also Osato’s job. She always seemed terribly busy, but she herself didn’t seem to mind much. Feeling it would be awkward to offer help, Tetsunosuke couldn’t bring himself to step in. Seeing how idle Tetsunosuke looked, Genshichirō called out to him.
“How about it? Care for a game of Go?”
“No… I only know how to play Gomoku.”
“I shall teach you. Go is also a proper refinement for a samurai.”
While Tetsunosuke was agonizing over his moves, the meal was ready.
It was a simple fare: cold tofu, pickled Nozawana greens, barley rice, and dried plums. They lined up three trays and ate.
Throughout the meal, silence reigned. As he sipped his tea, Genshichirō asked, “How old are you this year? Around twenty?”
“I am fifteen.”
“And your brother and sister?”
“My brother is nineteen, and my sister is thirteen.”
“Then how old is Lord Shinzaburō?”
“My father is already forty.”
“I see…” Genshichirō paused. “Tetsunosuke, the other day you said that a samurai is one prepared to throw away his life for his lord. If that is what you call a samurai, then perhaps I, too, can teach you. No, truth be told, I had been thinking that I must take a disciple soon. Or rather, as you said before, I wanted a disciple so badly I could taste it. I am no longer young. I wished to find a capable disciple while my body could still move, but the opportunity never arose.”
At that moment, the face of “Gensan the Buddha” transformed into that of a demon. Tetsunosuke gasped.
“Because of that… what I am about to tell you is something I have never spoken of to anyone.”
Genshichirō drew his sword and pointed it directly at Tetsunosuke.
“Listen well, Tetsunosuke. This is the end. Once you hear what follows, you will either obey me, or be cut down by me. There is no other choice.”
“Thank you… I will listen. Please, tell me!”
“My swordsmanship is not a dojo style meant to be shown off to the world,” Genshichirō said. “All who witness it must die. It cannot leave a name for posterity. I cannot become a master swordsman like Tsukahara Bokuden or Miyamoto Musashi. I shall die quietly, known to no one. However, this sword is passed down to a single heir. Through all eternity, it is transmitted from father to son. That alone is the proof that we lived in this world.”
Genshichirō’s face returned once more to that of the Buddha, and he returned the blade to its scabbard.
“In short… you must abandon the name of Tachiki and become my son.”
Tetsunosuke immediately understood the meaning of Genshichirō’s words. Osato was looking at Tetsunosuke with an anxious expression.
Overwhelmed with emotion, Tetsunosuke could not form words.
It meant forgetting Otaki, whom he had left behind in Hita, marrying Osato, and becoming an adopted son-in-law to the Tachibana family.
Tetsunosuke petitioned the Shogun for permission for the adoption, and it was granted.
That very night, under the witness of the landlord, Ozuya Denbei, a modest wedding ceremony was held for Tetsunosuke and Osato.