In the scorching glow of midday sun, its golden light poured down over the vast expanse of Niri Village—a place of life, trade, and deep-rooted tradition. The village was alive, pulsing like a single, beating heart.
Smoke curled from tavern chimneys, carrying with it the scent of roasted meats and spiced broths. Merchants lined the roads on both sides, shouting over one another to lure buyers—offering gleaming jewelry, dyed silks, freshly butchered meats, handmade ceramics, and sharp, polished blades. Each shop teemed with people, voices overlapping, deals being struck. Children laughed as they chased each other, weaving between carts and startled customers, while village guards gave chase to fleeing pickpockets, their armor clanking with urgency.
Amid the vibrant chaos, two figures strode calmly through the crowd, untouched by the noise.
The first wore a flowing blue kimono, the sash tight around his waist. A crisp white underlayer peeked out beneath. His black shoes moved with quiet grace. A straw hat shielded his face, its rope tied beneath his chin, casting shadows that veiled his expression. This was Tei Shimura, the Ninth Hekai of Niri—the leader of the entire village.
At his side walked a man in a soft pink kimono, more weathered in posture but no less dignified. Straw sandals tapped gently against the stone. His jet-black hair was bound with a metallic clasp, and a straw eyepatch covered his left eye. Jagged stitches ran down his lips to his neck, like the scars of battles past. His white beard trembled faintly in the wind. This was Higai Xumi, the respected head of the Xumi Clan, one of the village's oldest lineages.
They walked side by side, not speaking—yet needing no words.
Their silence contrasted sharply with the life surrounding them, as though the world paused to acknowledge their passing.
Eventually, they turned a corner, and the noise began to fade. The crowd thinned.
They entered a quieter part of the village—an older district, where the air felt heavier, and the stones beneath their feet whispered of stories long forgotten. The breeze carried no smoke, no scent—only the solemn weight of something about to begin.
---
A few villagers strolled past the moss-covered path, their eyes drawn to the grand stone walls ahead. Unlike anything they'd seen in their own provinces, the structure before them radiated nobility — ancient yet untouched by time.
Soon, the procession stopped at a towering wooden gate, flanked by two armored guards standing like statues. Carved boldly above the arch were the words:
"THE HOME OF THE HAYASHI."
The silence was broken.
"Is this the place?" asked the Hekai calmly, his voice smooth, yet distant.
Shimura, the stern-faced head of the Xumi clan, gave only a slow nod.
Moments later, deep within the inner valley of the estate, the Hekai sat upon a noble wooden chair carved with dragons. Beside him, Shimura rested, stiff as ever, while across from them sat Shoto Hayate — clan leader of the revered Hayate clan.
Shoto wore a vibrant green haori over a jade inner robe. His long brown hair was pinned with an ornate stick, and his beard flowed like a cascade of age and wisdom. The setting was peaceful — spring water ran in calm streams beside them, flowers in full bloom adorned the edges, and butterflies danced in the afternoon light.
Before them, dishes crowded the table:
- Unagi (grilled eel glazed in soy)
- Sashimi cuts of tuna, salmon, and octopus
- Tsukemono pickled vegetables
- Miso soup with wakame and tofu
- Chawanmushi, a delicate egg custard
- Onigiri wrapped in seaweed
- Taiyaki for dessert
- And ceramic flasks of fine sake, steaming lightly
The feast was elegant, a scene worthy of legends.
Each man held a small, rippled porcelain sake cup with both hands — a sign of maturity and respect. In unison, they raised the cups in silent gesture, and drank in a single, smooth motion.
Shoto Hayate erupted into a boisterous laugh, his mouth stretching wide in exaggerated joy.
"Hekai-sama!" he roared, arms wide, "You honor the Hayate with your presence! I am beyond pleased! Eat, drink — today, you are home! Ahahaha!"
The Hekai remained unmoved.
His straw hat now rested on his lap, revealing a youthful face — no older than twenty — but cold and detached, expressionless as carved stone. His black hair was tied loosely with a blue ribbon, with strands falling across his left eye.
Then, he spoke. His voice, sharp and direct:
"Shoto-san," he said darkly, "enough of the formalities. I know you despise me. So let's skip the pleasantries."
The air thickened.
Shimura's eyes widened — shocked at the audacity. Such words, spoken to a clan head, were beyond disrespect. But he didn't interrupt.
Shoto Hayate's laughter slowly died. His mouth froze mid-chuckle… and then twisted back into a calm, unreadable smile — the smile of a fox in a henhouse.
"Ah… So blunt, Hekai-sama," Shoto replied, voice suddenly smooth. "You haven't changed."
And the feast, though rich in flavor, suddenly felt cold.
The Hekai's voice sliced through the heavy silence like a blade.
"The Demand."
The word hung in the air.
Shoto's eyes shot open, his face twitching with restrained shock. The Hekai continued, his tone calm but unmistakably sharp
"A group of bandits has infiltrated the village. They've been smuggling the Demand Weapons—the very tools of war banned over sixteen years ago."
The room grew colder.
Shoto slowly closed his eyes, his voice calm but layered with unease.
"So… you're suggesting I'm involved?"
Shimura turned, gaze fixed and unwavering.
"Yes."
"Your clan nearly faced exile over this very issue, years ago. And now? The Hayate Clan sits as the fourth richest in Niri. Quite a leap, wouldn't you say?"
He took a step forward, voice tightening:
"I want every record of income, every transaction… delivered straight to the Emperor's Palace by dawn."
Shoto's jaw clenched, saliva gathering between gritted teeth.
He trembled—not out of fear, but fury.
Shimura offered a cold smile, a mockery of kindness.
"What's wrong, Shoto? Hmm?"
"The wine… has gone sour?"
With deliberate motion, the Hekai stood, pulling his straw hat over his head and tightening the rope beneath his chin.
"Oh, and one more thing…"
His back turned now, hands folded behind him.
"Your clan oversees the outskirts of the village."
He paused at the doorway.
"I do hope... nothing fishy slipped through."
And just like that, he walked away—his footsteps echoing like thunder in a room that had already collapsed into storm.
Shoto stood frozen.
The bitter taste of war, treachery, and history revisiting itself...
hung thick in the air.