It's nothing special.
This is just a ridiculous, meaningless tale.
"Did you beat someone again, Hakuji?"
"How long are you going to keep playing go?"
"I don't know. Kokushibo says he likes you."
"I don't need that!"
This is just the story of me running into weird old codgers.
**
I got beaten.
Got beaten.
Beaten again.
At the branch detention center, they beat me again and again.
When they caught me, they beat me, and they tattooed the mark of a criminal on me.
It was my everyday life.
So it didn't hurt me at all.
"The pickpocketing tattoo is now three lines on each arm. Next time, I'll cut off your wrists."
So what?
I was threatened with having my arms cut off, but I didn't care.
"Anyway, I won't get caught next time!"
If you plan to cut them off, go right ahead.
Even if both my wrists are gone, I still have my feet.
Even if my hands get cut off, I can just steal with my feet.
"You're a monster's child."
So what.
Since I was eleven, they say I've committed crimes as often as I eat.
They say not even a grown man can stay conscious after a hundred lashes of the whip, yet I never break.
Even if they called me a monster's child and scolded me, I didn't care.
Let them talk as much as they want.
I was literally born with teeth, anyway.
I mean, more than anything, money was what mattered.
I could steal as much as I wanted.
If I lost my arms, I'd steal with my legs.
And if I lost my legs too, I'd use my mouth.
I had to steal and carry it away, no matter what.
Because I needed money.
I needed it more than anything.
The reason I clung to pickpocketing despite all the beatings was–
"Have you come… Hakuji…?"
It was to bring medicine to my father.
My father fell ill.
When I was young, he looked stronger than anyone, but now he was wasting away.
The once sturdy man had his bones jutting out under his skin more and more.
He needed medicine to get better, but we were far too poor to buy any.
Our family was poor.
Someone once said that if you do something wrong, you must reflect on it.
Someone else said you must live honestly.
What a joke.
No matter how hard we tried, there was never enough money, and medicine was outrageously expensive.
That was what poverty meant.
In poverty, even calls for reflection felt like hypocrisy.
Similarly, honest work wasn't enough.
Even saving honestly couldn't put food on the table.
Honest living still couldn't heal my father.
So I stole.
I tried to gather money by pickpocketing.
The only thing this poor boy had was his tough body.
My body was filthy strong, enough to be called a monster's.
Even in this damn poverty, I was grateful to this wretched world for giving me this body.
Getting caught meant punishment, but thinking of my father, this pain was mere tickles.
I could endure hundreds of years of whip lashes or broken bones for my father.
Even if they tattooed me as a criminal, if it meant my father could eat better, I didn't care.
If my scars could heal my father, scars over my body meant nothing to me.
And yet.
That should have been enough.
Then, as always, on my way back from the detention center after being beaten.
A panting old man from next door rushed over and delivered unbelievable news.
"He heard you'd been caught again and hanged himself. He's dead!!"
My father was dead.
He took his own life.
There was no such thing as a fancy funeral for the likes of us poor folk.
They simply buried him in the ground, placing a small stone inscribed with his name atop it, and that was it.
The stone on his grave was–
Extremely small.
He'd grown smaller and all, but never this small…
I cradled that little stone and wept endlessly.
Why?
Why did you die, Father?
His last words were written like this.
"You can still start anew."
"I don't want to carry on living by taking from others."
"I'm sorry for everything."
"'Sorry for everything'…"
Why is Father apologizing? He did nothing wrong.
Is a poor man not even allowed to live?
What did we ever do wrong?
We couldn't eat like others, nor heal like others.
Is poverty such a great sin?
I resented the world.
As for this damn world, it can go to hell.
I took to the streets, swinging my fists.
I wandered away from Edo, throwing punches.
Punches without a target have such force.
Damn them all.
Swinging those fists, the adults fell before me.
Why do scumbags like these live, yet my father had to die?
My father never harmed a soul.
Why should Father have to apologize?
Even if he was whipped savagely or his bones shattered–
Told to reflect, live honestly, called a monster's child–
He could endure it, for my sake.
Father.
I wanted to feed you something more nourishing.
I wanted to cure your illness myself.
So why did you hang yourself?
I dropped the last man with a knee strike.
Gasps came between, but I still beat them all down.
Around me, only damned adults stood watching.
Then.
"Oh— oh— impressive!"
A man in a gi approached, applauding.
Beside him, a peculiar fellow wrapped head to toe who wore a sedge hat.
"They thought a kid was about to die and called me, but it seems he laid out seven grown men bare-handed?"
"I reckon this is the fellow... I'll fetch some supplies—take care of him as you see fit."
The hat-wearer stepped aside, and the smiling man drew closer to me.
"You've got talent, kid. Beating adults without a weapon—good stuff."
Who is this old man?
"Why not come training at my dojo? I've only got that one student."
"Geez, I'm not one of your disciples!"
"Tch! What a stingy lot."
Rage welled up inside me.
They're treating me like a kid.
"Shut up, you damn old codger! I'll kill you!!"
My wrath exploded, and I snarled at him without thinking.
But the man in the gi wasn't angry at my outburst.
"That tattoo marks you as a criminal of Edo? You got exiled from Edo and drifted to this neighborhood?"
In that calm, smiling face, he simply pointed to my aching finger.
A criminal of Edo.
A tattoo.
…
Right.
I am a criminal.
The tattoo on my arm proves it.
I got that tattoo to save my father, but–
Still, I was a criminal who failed to save him.
I gritted my teeth.
He knows nothing, this fellow.
With that smiling face, don't spout nonsense.
"So what are you gonna do then?! This has nothing to do with you!"
I burn with fury.
Just seeing that smiling face makes me hot-blooded.
He thinks he's gonna preach, despite knowing nothing.
He's never known poverty a day in his life like those other grown-ups…!
Then, he shifted his right foot back, sharpened his left hand like a blade, and clenched his right into a fist.
The man took his stance.
"Alright! First, be born anew, boy. Come at me!!"
Seriously.
I told you not to treat me like a kid!
"Die, you damn old codger!!"
Clenching my fist, I charged at him.
My punch was fierce.
After all, I just laid out seven grown men.
Surely, this old man was no great shakes, either.
That's what I thought.
But…
His body twisted, and his right fist smashed into my face.
My punch never reached him.
And,
His left fist cracked against my cheek.
As if to give me no opening, that right fist buried into my gut.
And once more to the jaw.
Once again to the face.
Like in the detention center, I couldn't fight back as he pounded me.
But, somehow,
His punches hurt far more than the lashings.
Yet it didn't feel as dirty as those whippings.
**
By his rapid strikes, that delinquent who'd beaten seven men finally fell.
No, no, that's not right.
My face wasn't just swollen—it was an angry purple.
Why did he strike my solar plexus?
And not a jab, but a straight…!
"Hey, you there! What do you think you're doing, bashing a kid like a dog on the hottest day of summer?"
At my scolding, the man in the gi scratched his head and chuckled.
"Whoo, this boy! Your punch packs a wallop. I almost found myself on the losing end."
As if.
I wasn't hit.
And that's your excuse?
You just shredded me like pork cutlet.
Why are the people I meet always out of their minds?
At this point, maybe the problem lies with me.