The bamboo grove provided scant shelter as night deepened, but Elias made do. He huddled against a cluster of thick stalks, the damp earth seeping cold through his jeans. The sword lay across his lap, blade unsheathed for quick draw—bandits were common in these fringes, as his readings confirmed. The rice balls from the villagers had dulled his hunger, their sticky grains and faint salty tang a far cry from takeout, but nourishing. The dried fish lingered on his palate, a reminder of the era's simplicity.
Stars pierced the canopy above, unfamiliar constellations in this pre-light-pollution sky. Elias's mind churned, parsing the day's language gains. His Japanese held up better than expected—key phrases landed, comprehension solid in context. But speaking? Halting, accent heavy. He whispered practice: "Watashi wa Elias desu. Yoroshiku onegai shimasu." I am Elias. Pleased to meet you. The vowels dragged American-flat; he adjusted, rounding them like the villagers'. "Arigatō gozaimasu… tabemono o kudasai." Thank you… please give food.
Immersion was key. Tomorrow: closer eavesdropping, mimic inflections. Build vocabulary through repetition.
A distant howl—wolf or dog—echoed. Elias gripped the hilt tighter. Internal clash stirred: this world's raw edge unnerved him. No ambulances for wounds, no antibiotics. One infection, and done. But pragmatism overrode: boil water, clean cuts. Adapt.
Dawn broke gray and misty. Elias rose stiffly, muscles aching from the ground. He foraged more persimmons, their crisp snap and tart burst energizing. Then back to observation. He circled the hamlet's perimeter, staying in cover.
Voices swelled as the village woke. A woman at the stream: "…mizu ga tsumetai ne… kyo wa hatake shigoto ga takusan aru yo…"
Water cold… today field work much.
Elias parsed: "Mizu" (water), "tsumetai" (cold), "kyo" (today), "hatake" (field), "shigoto" (work), "takusan" (a lot). He repeated silently, noting the casual "ne" for agreement-seeking. Useful for rapport.
Farmers gathered tools: "…ano hoe o kure… ine no tane o maku zo…"
Give that hoe… sow rice seeds.
"Hoe" (hoe), "kure" (give), "ine no tane" (rice seeds), "maku" (sow). Agricultural terms—he'd studied them for economic leverage. Rice was currency here; control it, control lives.
Mid-morning, movement caught his eye. A young woman ventured from the hamlet toward the woods—perhaps foraging. Slender, with long ebony curls swaying as she walked. She carried a basket, humming a soft melody. Elias watched from hiding, assessing: alone, vulnerable. Bandits preyed on such.
His instinct proved right. Rustles from the opposite treeline—three men emerged, ragged kosode, crude katanas at their belts. Ronin or deserters, faces gaunt with hunger.
The woman froze. "Dare… dare desu ka? Kaette kudasai!" Who… who are you? Go back please!
Her voice trembled, but clear—Elias understood every word. "Dare desu ka" (who are you), "kaette kudasai" (please go back).
One bandit leered: "…onna, kane o kure. Sore to… ano kago mo." Woman, give money. And… that basket too.
"Kane" (money), "kure" (give), "kago" (basket). Threat implied.
She backed away: "Nai… okane nai desu! Tasukete!" No… no money! Help!
The bandits advanced, laughing coarsely. Elias's mind calculated: intervene? Risk exposure. But letting her die—wasteful. She was local; saving her gained allies. Plus, his HEMA training itched for use.
Decision made. He burst from cover, sword drawn. The bandits spun.
"…nani? Gaijin da!" What? Foreigner!
Elias charged, blade high. First bandit swung wildly—katana arc predictable. Elias parried with a seamless guard, European style thrusting forward. Steel clanged, the man stumbling.
Second bandit: "Shinu zo, bakemono!" Die, monster!
Elias dodged, riposting with a calculated lunge—blade piercing the man's shoulder. Hot blood sprayed, metallic tang sharp in the air.
The woman screamed: "Tasukete… arigatō!" Help… thank you!
Third bandit fled, but Elias flanked, tripping him with a low sweep. A precise strike to the leg—non-lethal, but disabling.
Panting, he sheathed the sword. The bandits groaned, one fleeing limping. No pursuit—let word spread of a skilled gaijin.
The woman approached warily, basket trembling. Up close: 19 perhaps, flawless alabaster skin flushed from fear, jade-green eyes wide like polished stones, plump lips parted in awe. Willowy frame, subtle curves under her saffron yukata—dirt-streaked but fresh, as if changed daily for labor.
"…anata wa… tasukete kureta… arigatō gozaimasu." You… saved me… thank you very much.
Elias nodded, speaking carefully: "Daijōbu desu ka? Watashi wa Elias desu." Are you okay? I am Elias.
His accent drew a blink, but she understood. "Hai… daijōbu. Watashi wa Kiyomi desu. Chichi no ie ni… kite kudasai. Otōsan ga kansha suru." Yes… okay. I am Kiyomi. Father's house… please come. Dad will thank.
"Chichi" (father), "ie" (house), "kansha" (thank). Elias agreed: "Hai, ikimasu." Yes, go.
She led him to the hamlet, villagers staring. Whispers: "…ano gaijin… ano me ga hen…" That foreigner… those eyes strange.
The headman from yesterday approached: "…mata anta ka? Nani o shita?" You again? What did?
Kiyomi explained rapidly: "…dorobō ga osotte kite… kare ga tasukete kureta!" Thieves attacked… he saved!
Headman grunted: "…sō ka. Yoku yatta na. Tabemono o yaru." So. Well done. Give food.
Her father, a weathered tiller named Hiroshi, emerged from a modest hut. "…musume o tasukete kurete arigatō. Koko ni tome. Musume wa otoko no kage o shiranai… muku na mono da." Thank save daughter. Stay here. Daughter knows no man's shadow… pure one.
Elias parsed: gratitude, offer shelter. The purity hint—common era practice, virgins valued for alliances. He bowed: "Arigatō. Tasukemasu." Thank. Help.
Inside the hut: tatami mats, low table, rice-paper screens. Smell of straw and woodsmoke. Hiroshi offered tea: bitter matcha, steaming.
Elias sipped, practicing: "Oishii desu." Delicious.
Kiyomi smiled shyly, twirling hair—a tic when anxious. "Anata no kotoba… hen desu ne. Doko kara?" Your words… strange. Where from?
"Tōi yama." Far mountains.
She nodded, nurturing instinct showing: "Kizu wa? Kusuri o ageru." Wound? Give medicine.
No wounds, but he accepted a salve—herbal, pungent. Tenderness stirred—beyond pragmatism. Her demure warmth felt genuine, pulling at something he hadn't expected.
Villagers gathered outside, murmuring. Taro—the boy from earlier—peeked in: "…tsuyoi ne!" Strong!
Elias absorbed customs: remove shoes indoors—done. Sit seiza—knees folded. Chopsticks for meal: miso soup, rice, pickled radish. Savory umami grounded him.
Hiroshi spoke: "…kono mura wa abunai. Bandit takusan. Anata no ken wa tsuyoi. Tasukete kure." This village dangerous. Bandits many. Your sword strong. Help please.
Elias understood—request protection. Pragmatic: shelter for service. "Hai. Mamorimasu." Yes. Protect.
Night fell. Elias given a corner futon—thin, but better than ground. Kiyomi prepared it, blushing: "Yoku nemure." Sleep well.
As he lay, listening to crickets and distant owls, affection flickered. Kiyomi's kindness wasn't just asset—it warmed the isolation.
Tomorrow: more immersion. Help fields, listen, improve speech. Build.