𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘛𝘴𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘢
The tatami mat bit into Katsuo's knees. Three hours of formal seiza, and his legs had passed through pain into numbness. Around him, Lord Shimizu's court maintained perfect stillness—forty retainers arranged by rank, each man a statue carved from discipline and fear.
Beyond the sliding doors, voices carried from the courtyard. A child's sob. An old woman's prayer. The shuffle of bare feet on stone.
"Bring them forward," Shimizu commanded.
The doors slid apart with whispers of silk on wood. Guards herded the prisoners' families into the hall—sixteen souls who'd committed no crime beyond existing. An old man clutched a walking stick with arthritic hands. A young mother pressed her infant to her chest, eyes wide with animal terror. Three children huddled behind their grandmother's torn kimono.
Katsuo's breath caught. The baby couldn't be six months old. Pink-faced, sleeping despite the chaos. Tiny fist curled around its mother's finger.
"Honorable retainers," Shimizu's voice carried silk over steel. "These people harbored the rebels who burned our grain stores. Fed them. Sheltered them. Chose defiance over loyalty."
The baby stirred, made soft sounds. Its mother's tears fell on its blanket.
"Their men died fighting like cornered rats. But rebellion is a disease that spreads through bloodlines." Shimizu gestured with his war fan, the movement elegant as calligraphy. "We must cut out the infection completely. Execute them all. Let the survivors remember the price of defiance."
Katsuo's hand found his sword hilt. The familiar weight should have brought comfort. Instead, the steel felt heavy as mountain stone.
Around him, retainers shifted forward. Hands dropped to weapons. The machinery of death prepared to grind forward with bureaucratic efficiency.
"My lord..." Katsuo's voice cracked like ice on pond water. He swallowed, tried again. "My lord, they are innocents."
Silence dropped like a executioner's blade. Forty pairs of eyes turned toward him. Shimizu's fan stopped moving.
"Innocents?" The lord's voice held curiosity rather than anger. Worse. "Explain."
Katsuo's throat worked. Words came thick as blood. "The old man. The women. The children. They took no part in rebellion. Raised no hand against your authority." His fingers tightened on the sword hilt. "They are not combatants."
"No. They are not." Shimizu's smile belonged on a corpse. "They are examples."
The baby began crying. High, piercing sounds that cut through formal silence. Its mother rocked desperately, whispering lullabies that fooled no one.
"Examples, my lord?"
"Every village harbors sympathizers. Every family questions authority in their secret hearts." Shimizu's fan resumed its gentle motion. "But sympathy dies when the price becomes clear. Doubt withers when consequence blooms."
Katsuo forced himself to look at the prisoners. The grandmother met his eyes. Her face held no hope—only tired acceptance. She'd lived long enough to know how power worked. How justice bent beneath necessity.
"Killing them serves no strategic purpose," Katsuo said. Each word cost him. "Dead martyrs inspire more rebellion than live prisoners."
"Martyrs?" Shimizu laughed—bright sound like breaking glass. "Who will remember them? Peasants who fear following their example? Rebels who learn the cost of defiance?" He leaned forward. "Dead martyrs feed only crows, Katsuo. Fear feeds the living."
The baby's cries echoed off wooden beams. Its mother looked directly at Katsuo, eyes speaking what her voice could not. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦. 𝘚𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘚𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵.
Katsuo's hand trembled on his sword. Steel that had cut down armed enemies, skilled warriors, men who chose their deaths through their actions. Now it must taste infant blood.
"I cannot," he whispered.
The court drew breath like a single organism. Metal whispered against scabbards as forty swords cleared their housings by inches. Not drawn—that would imply challenge. Simply... ready.
"Cannot?" Shimizu's voice held winter. "Or will not?"
Katsuo raised his eyes to meet his master's gaze. Found only cold amusement there. This had been expected. Planned. He was being tested, measured, weighed.
"They are innocents," he repeated. "My sword serves justice, not slaughter."
"Your sword serves me." Shimizu's fan snapped shut. "Justice is what I decree it to be."
The old man among the prisoners stepped forward. His walking stick tapped against stone like a funeral drum. "Honorable lords," he said, voice steady despite his age. "My son chose rebellion. I raised him poorly, failed to teach proper respect." He bowed deeply. "Take my life for his crimes. Spare the children. They had no choice in their parents' actions."
Shimizu ignored him completely. His attention remained fixed on Katsuo like a cat studying wounded prey. "Your blade, Hayashi-san. Now."
Steel sang as Katsuo drew his katana. Torchlight danced along its edge—steel that had served three generations of his family. His grandfather's blade. His father's pride. His inheritance.
The grandmother whispered to the children in dialect too soft to follow. Prayers, maybe. Or songs their mothers had sung. Her weathered hands smoothed their hair with infinite tenderness.
Katsuo stepped forward. Raised the blade. The baby stopped crying—looked up at him with dark eyes that held no understanding of what came next.
"My lord." The words scraped his throat raw. "I request permission to commit seppuku rather than stain my ancestors' steel with innocent blood."
Forty swords cleared their sheaths completely. The sound filled the hall like striking temple bells.
Shimizu's laugh held genuine delight. "Seppuku? How wonderfully traditional. But no, dear student. You will kill them all, or I will have my other retainers do it slowly. Very slowly. While you watch." The fan opened with sharp snap. "Choose how they die, not whether."
The mathematics were simple. Quick death or slow death. Mercy or torture. The blade could make their ending clean.
But Katsuo's hand would not move. Could not move. Something fundamental inside him had locked solid as rusted metal.
"I cannot," he said again.
Shimizu sighed. "Very well. Jiro-san?"
A lean samurai stepped forward—scarred face eager for the chance to prove loyalty. His blade whispered clear of its scabbard, hungry for work.
"Begin with the children," Shimizu commanded. "Let their elders watch. Then the women. Save the old man for last."
Jiro raised his sword above the nearest child—a boy perhaps seven years old. The blade caught torchlight, transformed it into silver fire.
"Wait."
The voice came from deep inside Katsuo's chest. Not his voice. Something older. Colder. The part of him that had watched his father die in battle. That had seen villages burn while lords debated in comfort.
"I'll do it."
Shimizu's smile widened. "I thought you might."
Katsuo stepped toward the old man. Raised his blade. Steel caught torchlight, transformed it into silver fire.
The grandfather's eyes stayed steady. "Do what you must, young lord."
Katsuo's hand trembled. The blade wavered like heat shimmer. Forty retainers watched. Sixteen innocents waited. His master's smile widened with each moment of hesitation.
The katana dropped to his side.
"I cannot." The words came barely above whisper. "My lord, I cannot."
Shimizu's fan snapped shut. "Cannot?"
"They are innocents." Katsuo's voice gained strength. "My blade serves justice, not murder."
Silence stretched like a bowstring. Then Shimizu laughed—bright sound like breaking glass. "Very well. Guards, take the families to the holding cells. My student requires time to... reconsider his position."
Relief flooded the courtyard. Temporary reprieve, but reprieve nonetheless. The families were herded away to await execution, but they were still breathing. Still hoping.
Katsuo bowed deeply. "Thank you, my lord."
"Don't thank me yet." Shimizu's smile held winter. "You have until dawn to remember your duty. Refuse again, and Jiro will demonstrate proper loyalty—slowly. Very slowly. While you watch from the courtyard cage."
At the threshold, Katsuo paused. Looked back at his master's expectant face. Sixteen lives hung in balance. His honor on one side. Their suffering on the other.
"I understand, my lord."
The sliding doors closed with soft finality. Behind them, his master's laughter echoed like temple bells announcing funeral rites.
Outside, night wind carried autumn's promise. Stars watched with pitiless eyes as Katsuo's hand found the hilt of his ancestral blade.
Dawn would bring choice. And consequence.