The cave swallowed sound like a hungry mouth. Katsuo worked by torchlight, methodical as a surgeon. The Mongol's wrists bore rope burns from three hours of patient questioning.
"Supply routes," Katsuo said. His voice held no emotion. "Weekly schedules."
The prisoner spat blood. "Go to hell, Japanese dog."
Katsuo selected a thin blade from his collection. Clean steel, sharp enough to part silk. "Wrong answer."
The knife found the space beneath the man's fingernail. Pressed with surgical precision until something gave way with a wet pop. The Mongol's scream bounced off stone walls, multiplied into chorus.
"Supply routes," Katsuo repeated.
"Tuesdays... Tuesdays and Fridays." The words came through gritted teeth. "Dawn departure from Kashine. Sunset return."
Katsuo made no notes. His memory held maps of every path, every timing, every weakness the enemy revealed. "Guard complement?"
"Eight riders. Sometimes ten if carrying gold."
The blade moved to the next finger. The Mongol flinched, tried to pull away. The ropes held firm.
"Prisoner camps. Locations."
"I don't—" The scream cut short as steel bit deep. Blood ran black in torchlight.
"Three camps," the Mongol gasped. "Riverside. The old mill. The shrine to your dead gods."
Katsuo's hand stilled. "How many prisoners?"
"Thirty at riverside. Maybe forty. Hard to count when they keep dying."
The knife withdrew. Katsuo cleaned blood from steel with practiced efficiency. "Treatment of prisoners?"
"Whatever keeps them useful." The Mongol's breathing came ragged. "Work until they drop. Feed them enough to swing hammers. Your people break easily."
"Women? Children?"
"Some." The admission came quiet. "The pretty ones serve officers. Children work in kitchens."
Katsuo set down the blade. Drew his tantō instead. "And when they're no longer useful?"
"You know."
The steel found the prisoner's throat. Pressed against pulse point until skin dimpled but didn't break. "How long before they discover your absence?"
"Tomorrow morning. Patrol check-in."
"That gives us tonight." Katsuo's hand remained steady. "Fifteen hours to act on your intelligence."
The Mongol's eyes showed something like hope. "You got what you wanted. Let me go."
"Let you go?" Katsuo's voice held winter. "Return to your commanders? Warn them their schedules are compromised?"
"I gave you everything. I kept my word."
"Yes. You did." The blade drew a thin line across skin. Not deep enough to kill. Just enough to promise. "Your cooperation was... practical."
The hope flickered. Died. "Please."
Katsuo studied the man's face. Young. Maybe twenty-eight. Dark eyes that reflected torchlight. A scar across his left cheek from some old battle. Human features that might laugh with friends, weep for family, feel love or loss or simple contentment.
All irrelevant now.
"Your people took thirty villagers from Riverside," Katsuo said. "Worked them until they collapsed. Fed the survivors to keep them functional. Discarded them when they became inconvenient."
The tantō pressed deeper. Blood trickled down the prisoner's throat.
"Those villagers endured months of brutality. Died slowly, in agony, far from home." Katsuo's voice never changed tone. "You participated in their suffering. Benefited from their labor. Accepted their deaths as necessary cost."
"I was following orders."
"Yes. Just as I'm following mine." The blade found its mark with surgical precision. Severed carotid, windpipe, hope. "Your pain ended quickly. Theirs would have lasted years."
Blood painted the cave wall in arterial spray. The Mongol's body convulsed once, twice, went still. Eyes that had reflected torchlight stared at nothing.
Katsuo cleaned his blade on the corpse's sleeve. Good steel held no stains if properly maintained. He arranged the body respectfully—hands folded, eyes closed, weapon placed across chest. Even necessary killing deserved ceremony.
The intelligence burned clear in his mind. Three camps. Thirty prisoners minimum. Supply schedules that created opportunity windows. Guard complements light enough for small unit assault.
Fifteen hours to plan. Execute. Extract thirty lives from the enemy's machinery of suffering.
Katsuo gathered his tools, extinguished the torch. Darkness swallowed the cave completely. Outside, night air carried pine scent and possibility.
The Mongol had died quickly. Clean cut. Minimal suffering.
The prisoners in those camps faced months of agony unless someone acted on tonight's intelligence.
Katsuo mounted his horse, turned toward the first target. The mathematics were simple. One death purchased thirty lives. The equation balanced perfectly.
His uncle would have called it murder. Lord Shimizu would have praised the efficiency.
Katsuo called it Tuesday.