September 20, 188—, 4:00 a.m.
Lower Niban-chô[1], Kôjimachi Ward, Tokyo
Although, like the water, the sky was turning brighter, a thin haze still hung over the city. The only people who were awake were the guards and the doctors on duty at the military hospital in Hayabusa District.
During the Edo period, Kôjimachi Ward had been the center of the feudal government, with Edo Castle as both its political center and physical hub; the castle was surrounded by the residences of various feudal lords and samurai. The only part of town where commoners lived had been along the streets connecting Hanzômon and Yotsuya called the Kôjimachi.
Now the Imperial Palace had replaced Edo Castle, and government and military buildings—the Ministry of Military Affairs—stood where once the feudal residences had been situated like a ring of satellites around the castle.
The Ministry of Finance was in Ootemachi 1-chôme; the Ministry of Education in Ootemachi 2-chôme; and the Ministry of Justice and the Daishin-in (the current Supreme Court) in the Yaesu area. Owing to financial constraints, most of these offices had simply moved into the old feudal residences.
However, there was a section of Kôjimachi that had largely been unaffected by the tidal wave of political change. Although it was surrounded by Yasukuni Shrine in Shinmitsuke to the north, the British legation in Goban-chô to the east, and by the Executive Court and Prince Kawanomiya Kitashira’s majestic estate to the south, the residents of this humble part of town remained untouched by the upheaval and continued to live peacefully.
A youth ran down Lower Niban-chô, where single-story row houses lined the street for blocks. Even given his pace, he didn’t appear to be rushing to get anywhere in particular. As indicated by his white uniform, he was, in fact, in training—he was a martial arts student.
Usually his run, which began at the dojo and then continued along the street, was part of his training regimen. But ten days ago, he had found another reason to run aside from just building his endurance.
Glancing at the entrance of one of the row houses, the youth continued north for another thousand feet or so and passed through the gates of a moss-covered temple on his left. Deep within the spacious grounds, he spotted the young man dressed in a white top and blue hakama.[5] The young man stood in a stance that seemed to beckon to him.
Since the start of the Meiji era, the new government, eager to catch up to Western ways, had neglected the sword, which it regarded as a symbol of the old ways. So for ten years, the way of the sword had seen a steady decline, until finally people had begun to rediscover the virtues of the past, and training halls started to spring up again here and there.
But this young man who stood with his sword beside the clear pond seemed to be from a different world.
The new type of kendo had adopted a bamboo sword—not even a wooden one—as its principal weapon. And the new fashion demanded that the head, torso, and hands be covered in protective gear. And thus had kendo ceased to be a martial art and become merely a sport.
But the sword that this young man held was real.
Although the darkness lingered, it was morning. There was light, and the blade gleamed as if it had absorbed the light. The youth in the white uniform trembled. He did not feel afraid. He trembled with the excitement one feels when confronted by another, equally formidable warrior.
✦ ✦ ✦
By 1876, the Sword Abolishment Act had already been issued, and the best efforts of down-and-out samurai to again begin practicing the way of the sword resulted in only a modest revival that quickly faded. These days, few men were willing to dedicate themselves entirely to the art of swordsmanship. And awareness of class differences, which had been deeply rooted in the minds of both samurai and commoners, was dissipating and might soon be forgotten.
And yet, in such a world, here was a young man who, so early in the morning, was practicing with his sword.
To the youth in the white uniform, it was as if he were seeing a real samurai, just as he had known them in his childhood.
The movements of the young swordsman had not changed. He continued to swing the sword up and down. That was all. And, as his sword sliced through the air in a precise arc, he was a handsome and commanding figure. Even an amateur could see that he was no ordinary swordsman.
The youth in the uniform stared as if he were watching a beautiful woman.
“Shirô-kun.”
Suddenly he snapped out of his trance. He had been so mesmerized by the swordsman’s skill that he did not notice that the young man had stopped and was now looking at him.
“I’m sorry, Daigo-san. I didn’t mean to interrupt your training.”
Shirô scratched his head. Although Daigo was only a year older, he looked so much more mature than Shirô. Perhaps it was a difference in mental training.
But speaking of differences, there was another noticeable one.
As the sun grew brighter, it tinted Shirô’s face with a rosy hue, but Daigo remained as pale as a wax figure. Compared to Shirô’s ruddy countenance, Daigo’s handsome, chiseled features could almost be described as chilling. Thus, it wasn’t just his skill with the sword Shirô had been drawn to.
“You can hardly call this training,” Daigo said, smiling faintly. “A year ago, I used to take two thousand practice swings with a stick that weighed four kan.[3] Are you in the middle of your morning run?”
“Actually, yes. But when I saw you swinging that sword, I lost the will to keep training.”
“A student of the ‘new’ martial arts shouldn’t talk like that,” Daigo reprimanded him. “The way of the sword may never regain its former glory, but judo is really going to flourish. There’s nothing better when you have to protect yourself without a weapon.”
“That’s true.” Shirô nodded, beaming with pride. He watched his hero put his sword into a black scabbard. “But your sword is a thousand times better. I still get excited when I think about the time you beat up those yakuza.”
Ten days earlier, in the middle of his morning run, Shirô had spotted a girl being harassed by some yakuza in front of the temple gate. Before he could intervene, Daigo had appeared with his bamboo sword.
At six shaku, Daigo was much taller than Shirô, who was barely five shaku,[2] but the yakuza had underestimated the young man with the pretty face.
With one swing of his sword, Daigo had made the yakuza lose the will to fight.
By the time Shirô had joined the battle, every yakuza’s arm had been broken. And it had been done with a bamboo sword, not a wooden one. Usually a hard blow with a bamboo sword might raise a bruise or, at best, cause some swelling. But this man might be able to cut off an arm with a wooden sword. What might he do with a real sword?
Without a word, the yakuza had run away. Ignoring the girl who thanked him, Daigo had gone back inside the temple. Shirô had run after him and could only blurt out, “Amazing!” From that day on, they had entered into a relationship—one that might be more meaningful than mere friendship.
“Enough about me. How is the dojo?”
“Well, Sensei Kanô is busy out and about as usual, but Tomida is holding down the fort. We are accepting more and more students every day.”
“That’s great. I’m sure you’ll be even busier from now on.”
“Yes.” Shirô puffed out his chest a little with pride. He was a young man, not yet sixteen, and driven by passion and dreams. Remembering who he was talking to, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to brag. Um, how is your mother?”
“Oh, she’s fine.” Daigo smiled. Shirô was too innocent to notice the sadness in his smile or voice.
“That’s great.” Shirô beamed. Even the usually reserved Daigo was defenseless against Shirô’s cheerfulness.
“Let’s quit for today. My mother has been asking about you. Do you want to stop by?”
“Um, sure.” It was actually so that he could see Daigo that Shirô had changed his route. He rationalized that he would make up for cutting his run short by training three times as hard back at the dojo.
He followed Daigo, who carried his belongings wrapped in a green cloth. It was only a ten-minute walk to the row houses on Lower Niban-chô. Along the way, past the low roofs of the row houses, Shirô spotted the roof of what appeared to be a European-style mansion.
“What’s that?” It was a question Shirô had always wanted to ask.
“A house that belonged to a British trading company up until a year ago. It’s unoccupied now,” Daigo said indifferently.
Daigo and his mother lived in one of the hundred-year-old houses that lined the block in clusters of ten. They shared a dirt entryway and two six-tatami mat rooms, which was just enough space for two people.
“I’m back.” Daigo slid open the wooden door.
The woman grilling fish in the corner of the entryway looked up and replied, “Oh, hello.”