The late afternoon sun hung low, staining the western sky with hues of amber and rust. Cicadas screamed across the valley, their relentless chorus blending with the whisper of wind brushing over endless rice paddies. A single dirt road cut through the landscape like a scar—long, winding, and unbroken.
A lone traveller walked that road.
Hamamura Hanzo adjusted the strap of his furoshiki bundle across his back, the faint jingle of his bamboo canteen adding the rhythm to his steps. His bo-staff, carved from evergreen oak, rested easily against his shoulder. Sweat glistened on his brow, yet his expression remained carefree—a wanderer's calm painted over a fighter's frame.
"Man," he muttered in modern Japanese, kicking a small pebble ahead of him, "it's weird walking a road where nobody's honking, no vending machines, and no convenience stores."
He chuckled at his own words. The fields offered no laughter in return, just the endless hum of summer.
Every few minutes, a pulse of awareness rippled through him—his Observation Haki stretching outward, tasting the world's breath. Birds. Insects. A farmer's hoe against the soil, half a kilometre away. All ordinary, good day indeed.
He sighed, satisfied, letting the ability fade. "Still clear. Guess the curses around here took a vacation."
The road bent gently, curving toward a grove of willows. That's when he heard it—a voice carried on the wind. No, not just one—several. Foreign, clipped syllables. English.
Hanzo slowed his pace, curiosity tugging at him. The voices grew clearer—one feminine and commanding, another frazzled and masculine, with the occasional nervous murmur. He rounded the bend and saw it.
A western-style carriage had come to a miserable halt by the roadside, all of its rear wheels lying uselessly in the dirt. Beside it stood four figures.
The first was a woman whose very presence seemed to draw sunlight. Long, flowing blonde hair spilled from beneath a white hat, and her blue eyes gleamed like the sky reflected on porcelain. She wore a white dress trimmed with lace, the kind only noblewomen or diplomats' daughters could afford. Dust clung to her hem, yet she carried herself like it wasn't allowed to touch her.
Beside her stood another woman in western attire—her attendant, judging by the way she fretted over her mistress's parasol. A sweating man crouched by the carriage, muttering curses in English as he inspected the detached wheel—clearly the driver. The last member of the group was a towering man with a squared jaw and sharp eyes, one hand resting on the hilt of his sabre. The bodyguard.
Hanzo approached casually, raising a hand. "Excuse me, miss. Do you need assistance?"
Four heads turned in unison.
The blonde woman blinked in surprise, her lips parting slightly. "You speak English?"
Hanzo grinned. "Better than the French, I assure you."
The driver blinked twice. The attendant gasped softly. The bodyguard's brows furrowed—impressed, but cautious.
The blonde woman smiled—a small, melodic curve of amusement. "Well! What a delightful surprise. You must forgive our predicament. Two of the wheels decided to abandon us halfway to Okayama."
Hanzo crouched down, inspecting the carriage frame. "Looks like the axle pin slipped. You just need someone to lift while the driver reattaches it."
The attendant stepped forward, hesitant but polite. "If… if you could assist, sir, helping our bodyguard with the lifting, our driver can take care of the wheels."
Hanzo dusted his hands. "Of course. But you, sir—" he pointed to the guard, "—help your driver. I'll handle the heavy part."
The bodyguard blinked. "You?"
Hanzo nodded. "Yes, me. Don't worry—I've got good form."
For a moment, they thought he was joking. Then Hanzo squatted beside the rear axle, positioned his hands carefully, and with a smooth breath, he lifted the carriage with ease.
The entire rear of the carriage rose cleanly into the air, creaking under its own weight.
The driver froze mid-motion. The wrench in his hand clattered to the ground.
The bodyguard muttered something like, "...Goodness gracious…"
Even the blonde woman was momentarily speechless, blue eyes wide with astonishment.
Hanzo held it easily, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You might want to, you know, hurry."
That broke the spell. The driver scrambled to attach the right wheel while the bodyguard dealt with the left one. Within minutes, the carriage stood whole again. Hanzo lowered it gently back to the ground and dusted his palms.
The blonde woman let out a soft laugh, elegant and unrestrained. "Marvelous! I've seen circus strongmen in London less capable than you."
Hanzo scratched the back of his head, grinning. "Guess I missed my calling."
When the laughter faded, she offered her hand, though covered by gloves, he could see the glimpse of her white, soft skin. "I am Catherine Hackner, daughter of Henry Hackner, a merchant from London. We are traveling to bring goods from England. And you, sir?"
"Hamamura Hanzo," he replied, shaking her hand gently. "A simple traveller."
Her eyes gleamed. "A wanderer! How very romantic."
Her attendant, Marie, introduced herself next, followed by Thomas, the driver, and Clarkson, the stoic bodyguard.
"Please, Mr. Hamamura," Catherine said, gesturing toward the carriage, "at least allow us to offer you a ride into Okayama. Consider it gratitude for saving us from what could've been a very long walk."
Hanzo hesitated only briefly before nodding. "If you insist. My feet could use a truce."
Inside the carriage, the air smelled faintly of perfume and old leather. The rhythmic creak of wheels filled the silence as they resumed their journey. Hanzo sat opposite Catherine, his bo-staff resting against the seat, his posture relaxed yet polite.
"So," she began, her tone curious and playful, "how does a Japanese man come to speak English as though he studied at Cambridge?"
Hanzo grinned. "I read a lot of books… and a few thousand memes."
She blinked. "A few thousand… what?"
"Never mind. I just read a lot."
Catherine tilted her head, smiling. "You're quite unlike the men I've met here. Most are so dreadfully serious. You, Mr. Hamamura, are a peculiar delight."
"I get that a lot," he said, half-laughing. "Usually right before someone tries to punch me."
That drew another laugh from her, genuine and bright.
As the carriage rolled onward, the countryside shifted into clusters of homes, the scent of earth mixing with distant smoke. Hanzo's gaze wandered out the window. "Japan looks different when you're walking through it. Every village has its own heartbeat."
"What is your destination?" she asked.
"Tokyo. I've planned to reach it by walking."
She raised a brow. "That's… almost half the country. Why don't you go with us on our ship? It will take a shorter time."
"Every step's a story," he replied. "I'd rather earn the view than skip it."
Catherine leaned back, her gloved fingers tapping lightly against her chin. "How very poetic. You might make a fine writer someday."
Hanzo chuckled. "My handwriting's worse than my swordsmanship. But who knows? Maybe one day."
Their conversation drifted between light topics—customs, foods, the quirks of both cultures. Hanzo shared his amusement at Japan's rapid modernization.
"Half the people still wear kimonos," he mused, "the other half dress like they're auditioning for a European play. It's like watching cultures walking side by side."
Catherine smiled knowingly. "Indeed, they are. Though I was in awe when I saw those colourful kimonos. I even planned to order myself a kimono when in Tokyo."
Hanzo's humour softened, and for a fleeting moment, both sat in a quiet, companionable silence—two souls from different worlds, bound by shared curiosity.
When the city walls of Okayama came into view, the setting sun draped everything in gold. The distant silhouette of the castle loomed like a ghost of an older time, half-lit by twilight.
The carriage finally stopped outside an inn near the main road. The inn's windows glowed warm against the dimming sky. Catherine stepped down gracefully, her skirt almost brushing the gravel. Hanzo followed, stretching his back.
"Mr. Hamamura," she began, her voice soft but clear, "I owe you my thanks again. Had you not appeared, we might've been stranded till dusk."
Hanzo bowed lightly. "Just happened to be walking the right road at the right time."
Catherine smiled, holding her hat as the breeze caught her hair. "My father's ship, The Voyager, will be leaving for Tokyo soon. Should you find yourself in the capital, seek us there. I would be delighted to continue our conversation there."
He smiled in return. "I'll remember that, Miss Hackner. And may your wheels stay attached this time."
She laughed—a bright, musical sound that lingered even after she turned away.
The carriage rolled into the inn's courtyard, her silhouette framed by lamplight. Hanzo stood there for a while, watching the fading daylight flicker against the city's awakening lanterns.
"Voyager, huh…" he murmured, the name echoing faintly in his mind. "Wait a minute, did I just get myself a date?"
Hastily adjusting his haori, he turned toward the city. Okayama awaited—a new chapter.
The road stretched ahead, and Hanzo walked on, the memory of a blonde lady's laughter following him into the night.