In the main hall, Hojo Yoshitoki stood facing the open window, hands folded behind his back.
The messenger from the western regions had just finished reporting.
"The Nara territory is calm, my lord," the man said cautiously. "No signs of rebellion."
Yoshitoki gave a faint smile without turning. "Calm does not mean loyal."
He walked slowly to the low table where regional maps lay spread out. His fingertip stopped over Nara.
"The Jōkyū Rebellion is over," he continued. "But the memory of the defeated never truly fades. They bow because they must, not because they accept."
The messenger bowed deeper. "Your command, my lord?"
"Send word to Daimyo Nara," Yoshitoki said flatly. "Their tribute is doubled. Rice, horses, and gold. Twice last year's amount."
"Twice?" The messenger was startled before quickly bowing again. "Forgive me… will that not burden them too much?"
Yoshitoki looked at him. His gaze was cold, not angry, only calculating.
"Burden is the best measure of loyalty," he said. "If they bear it without complaint, they obey. If they complain, we know what to do."
The messenger nodded. "I will depart at once."
"One more thing," Yoshitoki added before the man withdrew. "Watch movements in Nara. Especially anyone once connected to Clan Kageyori."
The name slipped out casually, but the room grew heavier.
"Yes, my lord."
When the messenger left, Yoshitoki turned back to the sea. He did not believe in coincidence. Too much blood had been spilled at Jōkyū to let a small ember flare again.
---
In Nara, the letter from Kamakura arrived toward evening.
Morizawa Nara read the scroll in silence. His face stayed calm, but his fingers tightened slightly on the paper.
"Double…" he murmured.
His advisor stood waiting.
"If we refuse, they will send troops," the advisor said carefully.
"If we accept, our people bear it," Morizawa replied.
He stood and walked to the small garden behind the hall. The fish pond was still, reflecting the red dusk sky.
"We are not in a position to refuse," he said finally. "We will send what they demand."
"And your plan, my lord?" the advisor asked.
Morizawa smiled faintly. "Plans are not built in a day."
He gazed into the pond, as if seeing something within.
"If Akira Kageyori chooses to join, we will have more than mere hope."
"A destroyed clan's heir," the advisor murmured.
"A symbol," Morizawa corrected softly. "And symbols are more dangerous than swords."
---
Meanwhile, on the road to Uji, two figures walked side by side along a dust-dry path.
Akira looked ahead, saying little. Ryuma walked casually beside him, a small wooden staff in hand though he rarely needed it.
"Long time since you last came here?" Ryuma asked.
"Since before it all ended," Akira answered quietly.
Uji greeted them with a different silence. Some houses had been rebuilt, but many still bore black burn marks. Charred beams stood like skeletons refusing to fall.
They stopped before an empty plot with cracked stone foundations.
Akira did not need to ask. He knew.
That was where his house once stood.
He stepped forward slowly, each footfall waking childhood shadows. He could almost hear his mother calling from the kitchen, his father talking with retainers.
Now only the wind whispered.
Ryuma gave him space for a while.
Akira knelt near a half-collapsed wall remnant. He shifted a charred plank, searching for something he wasn't even sure still existed.
His hand touched something different—wood not fully burned.
He pulled it out slowly. A small box, exterior scorched, but the lock intact.
His heart beat faster.
He opened it carefully.
Inside, several document scrolls, edges blackened but main contents still legible.
Ryuma approached. "What is it?"
"My father's notes," Akira said softly. "Letters. Strategies. Names."
Ryuma knelt beside him. "Reading them now?"
"No." Akira rolled them carefully. "I want to read them somewhere quiet."
They stood and continued toward the next village.
The sun was setting when the sound came.
Hoofbeats.
Shouts.
A whip cracking the air.
Akira and Ryuma exchanged a glance without words. They slipped into the roadside trees, keeping distance.
On the main road, five Kamakura soldiers rode escorting a young woman, hands bound. The rope was tied to one saddle, dragging her when she stumbled.
"Get up!" one barked, whipping her back.
She stifled a scream but did not cry. Her face was dust-streaked, hair tangled.
"What did she do?" an old man by the roadside dared ask.
One soldier turned. "Her village refused extra tribute. She incited it."
"I did not incite!" the woman shouted, breath ragged. "We paid what was asked last year! You're the greedy ones!"
The whip landed again.
Akira's fingers tightened on his katana hilt.
Ryuma touched his arm lightly. "Don't be reckless."
"Don't you see?" Akira whispered.
"I see," Ryuma said calmly. "I also see five swords and only two of us."
They followed from afar.
The group stopped at a small clearing outside the village. One soldier dismounted and yanked the woman to her feet.
"Strip her," he said casually to the others.
"Here?" another laughed.
"To make it a lesson."
The woman tried to back away, hands bound. "No… please…"
Akira stepped out from the trees.
Ryuma sighed softly. "I knew you wouldn't stay quiet."
"Let her go," Akira said, voice not loud but clear.
The five soldiers turned almost in unison.
"Who are you?" one grinned.
"Just a passerby," Akira replied.
"Then keep passing," the soldier said. "This is Kamakura business."
The woman looked at Akira with hope and fear mixed.
Akira stepped closer. "Punishing people by humiliating them is not justice."
The whip-holding soldier laughed. "Justice? You think we care about that word?"
He walked up, eyeing Akira head to toe. "You're not from here."
"No."
"Then don't interfere."
Akira looked at the woman again. Her back was striped with welts. Lips bled.
"Let her go," he repeated, firmer.
The soldier grinned. "Or what?"
Silence for seconds.
Ryuma stood a few steps behind Akira, face calm but eyes alert.
"Young man," he said quietly, "if you're going to do it, do it fast."
The soldiers exchanged looks, then laughed.
"Look at this," one said to another. "A hero."
Akira exhaled slowly. His heartbeat steadied, like before the bandit fight.
"What's your name?" the closest soldier asked, mocking.
Akira paused.
He could use another name. A safe one. One without shadows.
But the whip's crack still rang in his ears. The smell of charred wood from his old home clung to his nose.
He raised his face, meeting the soldier's eyes directly.
"My name," he said quietly but clearly, "is Akira Kageyori."
The soldiers' laughter stopped.