Chapter 17 - Chapter 17: Exile's Burden

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨

The cell door opened without ceremony. Shimizu stood silhouetted against morning light, silk robes pristine as if sixteen deaths had never stained his hands.

"Your wounds have healed sufficiently." His voice held the same casual tone used for discussing weather. "Time to depart."

Katsuo rose slowly, scar tissue pulling tight across his chest. The parallel cuts had sealed but still wept clear fluid through the bandages. Each breath felt like swallowing broken glass.

"My lord?"

"You are no longer my retainer." Shimizu's fan snapped open with sharp finality. "Take nothing but the clothes on your back and that sword you value so highly. Learn what the world offers to masterless men with questionable loyalty."

The castle gates closed behind him with iron finality. Guards he'd served beside for years averted their eyes. Servants who'd once bowed respectfully now watched from shadows, whispers following in his wake.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥.

---

𝘚𝘪𝘹 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳

The inn smelled of sweat, sake, and failed dreams. Katsuo sat in the corner booth, rice bowl empty before him, watching rain streak the paper windows. Three weeks in this cesspit of a town, and still no lord would grant him audience.

The scar tissue had hardened into thick ridges across his chest—visible through the gap in his worn kimono. Every potential employer saw them first. Asked no questions. Turned away before he could speak his name.

The first rejection had come within hours of leaving Shimizu's lands. A minor lord's steward, examining his scarring with distaste.

"These marks indicate punishment for serious crimes. My master requires retainers of unblemished reputation."

The second rejection followed the same pattern. And the third. Word traveled faster than a masterless samurai could walk. By the time Katsuo reached the provincial capital, his reputation had preceded him.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘳ō𝘯𝘪𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥.

"Another?" The serving girl held a sake bottle, eyes avoiding his face.

Katsuo shook his head. Couldn't afford another cup, and drink made the memories sharper. The boy's voice echoing off stone. 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘸𝘢𝘺?

"Heard Lord Matsuda's looking for retainers," she offered quietly. "Down river, past the old bridge."

"What kind of work?"

She glanced around, lowered her voice. "Tax collection. From villages that... resist compliance."

Katsuo's hand found the scar through his kimono. The same work Shimizu had demanded. Using strength to crush weakness. Taking coin from families who could barely feed their children.

"I'll consider it."

The girl bowed and moved away, wooden sandals clicking against warped floorboards. Outside, thunder rolled across grey mountains like distant war drums.

---

The next morning brought another rejection. Lord Fujiwara's steward examined the scarring with distaste, as if traitor's blood might contaminate his master's household.

"These marks. Punishment for what crime?"

"Disobedience, honorable sir."

"What manner of disobedience?"

The truth stuck in Katsuo's throat. 𝘐 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥."I... questioned an order I should have obeyed."

The steward's expression hardened. "Lord Fujiwara requires absolute loyalty from his retainers. Men who question orders bring discord." He gestured toward the gate. "Try your luck elsewhere."

Elsewhere had run out two weeks ago. Every lord from here to the capital knew his reputation now. Word traveled fast among the noble houses—the scarred rōnin who couldn't be trusted.

---

𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘭𝘦

The bandit camp occupied a burned-out shrine in the mountains. Fifteen men in stolen armor, faces weathered by outdoor life and casual violence. Their leader, a one-eyed giant called Tetsu, examined Katsuo's sword with professional interest.

Winter had been harsh that first year. Sleeping under bridges, begging rice from temples, watching his father's silk kimono rot into rags. The sword remained perfect—oiled, sharpened, worthless as honor in a world that rewarded only strength.

"Fine steel. Family blade?"

"Three generations." Katsuo kept his voice level. "I'm told you need skilled fighters."

"Always need fighters." Tetsu tested the edge with his thumb, nodded approval. "Question is what you'll fight for."

The answer should have been simple. Money. Food. Shelter from winter's bite. But these men robbed pilgrims and burned farmhouses. Took what they wanted from those too weak to resist.

Like Shimizu's tax collectors. Like every strong man who preyed on weakness.

"Merchant caravans," Tetsu continued, handing back the sword. "Fat traders who won't share profit with those who guard the roads. Fair exchange, right?"

One of the bandits laughed. "Last month we took three wagons. Silk, silver, rice wine. Merchants squealed like pigs when we—"

"What about the families traveling with them?" Katsuo's question cut through the laughter.

Tetsu's good eye narrowed. "What about them?"

"Children. Old people. What happens to them?"

"Same thing that happens to everyone who doesn't hand over their purses." The giant's smile held winter. "We're not nursemaids, friend. This is business."

Business. The same word Jiro had used in the valley. The same justification for putting blades through grandmothers and babies.

Katsuo slid his sword back into its scabbard. "I'm afraid this arrangement won't suit me."

The laughter died. Fifteen hands dropped to weapon hilts.

"Won't suit?" Tetsu's voice carried new edge. "You think you're better than us?"

"I think I'm exactly like you. That's the problem."

---

𝘛𝘸𝘰 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨

The fishing village squatted beside grey water, houses weathered by salt wind and constant struggle. Nets hung from drying racks like giant spider webs. Boats bobbed at anchor, waiting for tides and courage.

Katsuo stood on the dock, sea spray mixing with rain on his face. Twenty-four months of rejections had carved away everything soft in him. The idealistic young retainer had died as surely as those sixteen souls in the hidden valley. The passage to Tsushima cost more coin than he possessed, but the captain studied his sword with knowing eyes.

"Samurai?"

"Rōnin."

"Same thing these days." The old sailor spat into dark water. "War's coming to the islands. Mongol ships on the horizon. Good money for men who know which end of a blade cuts."

War. Foreign enemies who wouldn't care about scarred flesh or questionable loyalty. Death that might have meaning instead of just consequence.

"Can you use that sword?"

"Yes."

"Fight for the right side?"

Katsuo touched the scar through his kimono. Right side. Wrong side. The difference had died in a hidden valley with sixteen innocent souls.

"I fight for whoever pays."

The captain nodded approvingly. "Honest answer. Most men dress up greed in pretty words." He gestured toward his boat. "Passage leaves with tomorrow's tide. Bring your own food and sleep under stars."

---

That night, alone in the inn's cheapest room, Katsuo knelt before his ancestral blade. Three generations of honor gleamed in candlelight. His grandfather's pride. His father's legacy.

Steel that had tasted innocent blood. That had failed when mercy mattered most.

The boy's voice whispered from memory. 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘶𝘴?

Because I thought I was better than I was. Because I believed good intentions mattered more than harsh reality. Because I was weak enough to think conscience could change consequence.

The lessons burned deeper than heated steel. Mercy was luxury the dead couldn't afford. Strength was the only truth that mattered. Good men died while harsh men survived.

Tomorrow's tide would carry him toward foreign war. Toward enemies who might test these hard-won truths. Toward death that might finally balance the scales of his failure.

He blew out the candle. Darkness fell like an executioner's hood.

Outside, rain continued its endless funeral song.