That evening, after dinner, Kazuma headed out into the courtyard and began tinkering with the shishi-odoshi.
A shishi-odoshi—literally "deer-scarer"—was a simple device: a bamboo tube mounted on a pivot. Its opening tilted upward while water continuously trickled in. Once the bamboo filled to a certain point, it would tip over, striking a stone with a distinctive clack before resetting.
Yes, exactly the kind of clack clack sound effect you'd always hear in a Japanese drama scene set in an elegant courtyard.
The Japanese considered it an embodiment of Zen aesthetics—so any refined garden naturally had one.
Zen aesthetics, huh? Just hearing the term gave Kazuma a sense of ritual.
That was why he had decided to restore the shishi-odoshi. Who knew? Maybe it would help him enhance his training.
He first examined the bamboo tube. The thing wasn't mechanical at all—astonishingly simple. As long as water kept dripping in, it would resume functioning on its own.
Next, Kazuma turned his attention to the water source. Tracing it carefully, he soon discovered a hidden water pipe—or rather, of course there was a pipe.
Following it led him to the dried-up pond, where he located the intake.
Poking a stick inside and stirring, he felt something like paddle blades.
It seemed a small water pump was buried beneath the pond, designed to send water up to the shishi-odoshi.
Kazuma began searching for an access hatch to the pump—there had to be one. Otherwise, how would you repair it if it broke?
"Bro, what are you doing?" came Chiyoko's voice from behind.
Kazuma glanced up. "Trying to get the shishi-odoshi working again."
Chiyoko raised an eyebrow. "Now? Aren't we selling the dojo?"
Kazuma had no retort.
We are... but we can't sell at a good price yet.
Chiyoko continued, "And besides, that thing's been broken for ages. Fixing it would probably mean replacing the pump—and we don't exactly have spare cash for that."
Kazuma knew that perfectly well. He just wanted to see if he could do anything on his own.
"Wait," he said suddenly, picking up on something in her words. "You know the pump's broken?"
"Of course. Dad always wanted to fix it. Bro, you forgot?"
Her reminder stirred a buried memory—yes, their father had worked on repairing the pump.
Without Chiyoko's prompt, Kazuma probably wouldn't have recalled that anytime soon.
Now that he remembered, the image of his father working on the pump brought with it the location of the access hatch.
He walked over to a section by the dried pond, stomped twice to confirm the hollow sound beneath, then used his foot to sweep aside the layer of fallen cherry blossom petals, exposing the hatch cover.
"You're going to open it?" Chiyoko asked. "I'll grab the key."
Setting down the tray of tea and snacks she was holding, she turned and headed back into the house.
A moment later, she returned with a large key ring bristling with keys—and in her other hand, a long object wrapped in cloth.
Curious, Kazuma asked, "What's that?"
"No idea. I spotted it in the storeroom while getting the keys. It looked like it had been there forever, so I brought it out... Judging by the shape and feel, I think it might be..."
She hefted it experimentally, stirring up a cloud of dust that made her cough before she could finish.
Kazuma quickly stepped over and took the object from her.
It felt like... a bundle of bamboo swords?
He set it down, which released another burst of dust, forcing him to lean back to avoid it.
Then, deftly, he untied the cords and unwrapped the dusty cloth.
"A wooden sword..." Kazuma murmured, pulling one free and inspecting it.
Clearly, this bokken had seen long use. The grip bore darkened patches where countless hands had soaked the wood with sweat over the years.
Chiyoko watched fondly. "So nostalgic... It was back when Grandpa was still alive that the dojo used wooden swords. You probably trained with one when you were little, right, Bro?"
Her words triggered another flood of memories in Kazuma's mind—vivid as if replaying a film.
A five-year-old Kazuma, standing stock-still beneath the cherry trees, holding an adult-sized bokken in middle guard—practicing kata.
Grandfather Kiryu, dressed in black kimono, arms crossed, observing him with stern intensity. He looked just like a senior retainer from a historical drama.
Nearby, on the engawa, a petite woman sat with her legs dangling, cradling a swaddled infant—Chiyoko.
"I started learning kendo after Grandpa passed away," Chiyoko said. "That's when Dad modernized the dojo—switched from wooden swords to bamboo, changed the curriculum to focus on competitive kendo. It became more popular that way.
"But a lot of Grandpa's old students quit. They said, 'This was a koryū dojo! We came to learn iaigiri and cutting through wooden posts, not that soft, girly sport kendo!'"
"And one by one, they all left."
Kazuma gazed at the wooden sword in his hands—technically a practice sword.
"So Dad kept the wooden swords after all."
"Yeah. Good thing, too—if the yakuza show up again, we can use these on them." He paused. "Honestly, that's partly why I grabbed it. You think we'll really run into more trouble, Bro?"
Chiyoko looked worried. "Calling the police really won't help?"
Kazuma shrugged. "It's not useless. With police pressure, the yakuza have to follow some rules—they can't go completely wild. But it's always better to have some way to defend ourselves. A wooden sword's better than a bamboo one.
"Wait... since we used to be a koryū dojo, don't we have any real swords?"
Chiyoko shook her head. "We used to, but Grandpa sold his prized blades to raise money. As for the training swords, Dad got rid of them too—they're worth more than the wooden ones."
So the decline started even back in Grandpa's time... Kazuma mused. No wonder things have gotten this bad.
He gave the bokken a few practice swings, then looked at Chiyoko. "You've never trained with wooden swords, right?"
"Nope. I've only used bamboo."
"Come here—I'll teach you. If anything happens, I might need you watching my back."
Last time, when they'd fought Nishiyama Heita, Chiyoko had played a key role. Her form had been a little too textbook—announcing her target like in kendo matches—but she'd still knocked away the knife that could've stabbed Kazuma.
Beaming, Chiyoko kicked off her slippers and ran barefoot onto the courtyard earth.
"Hey! At least change into courtyard slippers first," Kazuma said, exasperated. "Come on, stand here. Take the wooden sword."
Patiently, Kazuma began teaching her the basics of using a bokken.
A breeze stirred the night air, scattering cherry petals across the courtyard. Under the watchful gaze of the old cherry tree, the siblings trained beneath the moonlight.
(End of Chapter)