On the hillside behind the village, an old man and a child lay side by side on the soft grass.
Yoriichi gathered the broken twigs scattered around them and stacked them neatly to one side—fuel for a fire later.
Ryōtarō gently stroked the boy's head, smoothing his messy hair. He soaked a tattered cloth in stream water and carefully wiped Yoriichi's dirty face clean. When his wrinkled fingers brushed against the blazing red mark on the boy's forehead, the old man let out a quiet sigh.
Such a good child…
Why must he bear such an ominous mark?
Doesn't the gods have eyes?
Why should a child like this be treated so cruelly?
"Yoriichi," the old man asked softly, "what do you want to be when you grow up?"
"I want to buy a big house," Yoriichi replied seriously, lifting his small head.
"A really big one. Then Grandpa Ryōtarō and I can live there together. Forever."
His childish face was solemn, his tone unwavering.
To him, Ryōtarō was the only person in the world who had ever treated him kindly.
His shelter.
His family.
He didn't want to be separated from him.
The old man froze.
He had expected the boy to say something like wanting endless food or piles of money… but instead, all he wanted was to stay together.
A faint shimmer appeared in the old man's eyes. He quickly turned away while Yoriichi looked up at the stars, wiping the moisture away with his sleeve. His withered arms were covered in age spots, proof of years long past.
Ryōtarō was already old.
A survivor of the Warring States era, he was nearly sixty. In a world plagued by constant conflict, raids, and bloodshed, that was an astonishing age. Back then, most people didn't live past thirty. Children were sent to battle before they reached adulthood—some were already veterans at seven or eight years old.
"Yoriichi… how old are you now?"
"Three! I'll be four soon!"
His red eyes sparkled as he looked up innocently.
"Three…" the old man murmured.
"Already such a big boy."
When he'd found Yoriichi, the child had barely been a year old—left in an alley, wrapped in thick cloth to keep him from freezing to death overnight.
"If… one day Grandpa isn't here anymore," Ryōtarō said quietly, "you must live bravely, alright?"
"He will be!" Yoriichi immediately protested.
"You'll always be here! You have to be!"
He spat three times for luck, dragging Ryōtarō into doing the same.
The old man laughed, revealing his missing teeth, and followed along.
The moon rose high, shrouded by drifting clouds.
Who was thinking of whom under that sky?
Who was waiting for whom?
Yoriichi soon fell into a deep sleep.
But Ryōtarō remained awake.
By the firelight, he took out a yellowed piece of paper and began writing carefully. The flickering flames illuminated his face, carving every trace of love and sadness into his wrinkles.
After a long time, he finished writing.
He placed the paper beside Yoriichi's head, then took out a square object wrapped in oilcloth and set it atop the letter. Hesitating, he decided that wasn't safe enough. Gently lifting the boy's clothes, he tucked both items into Yoriichi's chest, then draped his own coat over him.
Only then did he smile in relief.
"Goodbye… Yoriichi…
Goodbye… Tsugikuni…"
At dawn, a rooster crowed.
Sunlight crept over the horizon, finally piercing the long darkness.
Ryōtarō picked up his cane and walked away, glancing back again and again, engraving the boy's face into his memory—until he vanished from sight.
---
Yoriichi dreamed a beautiful dream.
In it, he became the strongest warrior in the land—just like the legendary Tsugikuni Yoriichi. With a single strike, he slew Muzan. He owned a huge house, bigger than the entire alley he once lived in.
There was food everywhere.
So much that he could never finish it.
He and Grandpa Ryōtarō never had to beg again.
Never had to stare at steaming buns from afar.
Never had to eat discarded leaves.
He had a family.
Children who called Ryōtarō "Great-Grandpa," filling the house with laughter.
"Grandpa…"
He reached out—
But grasped nothing.
Yoriichi jolted awake.
The warmth was gone.
So was his grandfather.
The coat slipped from his shoulders. The letter and oilcloth fell to the ground.
He recognized the paper.
Once, he had asked what it was.
A love letter from long ago?
Ryōtarō had smiled and said it was something precious someone once left him.
With trembling hands, Yoriichi unfolded it.
The handwriting was rushed and messy.
[My dear Yoriichi.]
[Forgive Grandpa for leaving without saying goodbye. There is something I must do. Long ago, I promised someone that I would go to a land filled with sunlight… and scatter its warmth across the world.]
[I failed that promise.]
[But even now, I will not stop walking toward the sun.]
[Yoriichi… Grandpa can't watch you grow up anymore. But remember this, you are the best child in the world.]
[A cowardly man, Ryōtarō.]
...
Tears streamed down Yoriichi's face.
The oilcloth slipped open.
Inside was fresh pork.
He remembered once seeing a chubby boy holding meat that smelled impossibly good. He had followed him, only to be beaten for it.
Later, he asked Ryōtarō what meat tasted like.
The old man had paused, then smiled gently.
"Very fragrant. Very delicious."
"Very fragrant… very delicious…"
Yoriichi tore into the raw meat like a starving animal.
He cried as he chewed.
Blood filled his mouth.
It was bitter.
Hard to swallow.
It's a lie.
It wasn't fragrant at all. Not a single bit.