To Sentarō, it was utterly bizarre. How could a girl no older than his own younger brother harbor such venom toward the very institution he had devoted his life to? The police force—the symbol of justice, order, and protection—was everything he had been raised to respect. And yet here was a child, no more than ten or eleven, letting rage and bitterness define her perception of it.
Oharu's grandfather, calm despite the chaos, broke the silence. "Oharu… please, stop this," he said in his soft, measured voice. But his words fell on deaf ears. The little girl's hatred had eclipsed reason. It had swallowed her completely, cutting her off from any sense of connection or understanding.
Tadatoshi, unwilling to wait for her to recover on her own, acted decisively. In one swift motion, he struck the back of her neck with his palm. The movement was clean, precise, and careful—not cruel, but designed to subdue her completely. Oharu's body went limp, and she collapsed but was caught by Tadatoshi before hitting the ground.
"She's… out cold," Tadatoshi said bluntly, brushing his hands together as if nothing had happened.
Sentarō knelt beside her, eyes wide. "How is that possible?" he asked aloud, incredulity dripping from every word. "How can a young girl like her harbor so much hatred for the police force?"
Tadatoshi shrugged, still standing. "I don't know, but she's fine. I only knocked her out."
Sentarō's gaze shot to Reiko, who groaned in exasperation. "You idiot! That's not how you explain things to her caretaker!" she snapped, flailing her hands dramatically.
"I wasn't talking to you, ugly," Tadatoshi shot back instantly, the teasing edge in his voice clear as ever. The two bickered, heads nearly colliding in their classic back-and-forth, while Sentarō simply shook his head, contemplating whether he should intervene or ignore them altogether.
Turning his attention back to the old man, Tadatoshi spoke bluntly again. "Old man, take us to your home. We'll drop this girl off safely."
"How many times must I tell you to speak politely?" Reiko barked, her hands on her hips in comical rage.
Sentarō intervened, bowing respectfully. "Please, sir. If you don't mind, we would like to go to your home to make sure Oharu is safe."
The old man smiled gently, relief softening his features. "Of course. That isn't a problem." He turned and began walking down the street, careful to avoid the debris left from the earlier fight. Sentarō and Reiko followed behind, while Tadatoshi carried Oharu effortlessly under one arm.
The streets of Sakurahara were quiet now, the earlier chaos slowly fading into memory. Yet a lingering unease remained in Sentarō's chest. Questions clawed at him: Why did Oharu hate the police so much? What horrors could have led her to feel such venom at so young an age?
After a short walk, they arrived at the old man's home. It was modest—smaller than even the barracks they were used to—but it radiated a sense of order and care. Wooden walls gleamed with polish, and the tatami mats were spotless, each fold perfectly aligned.
"Here is my humble home," the old man said, gesturing to the small structure. "I apologize for the detour. We had to avoid the villagers who… were less than welcoming today."
Sentarō and Reiko exchanged a glance but didn't comment. They had bigger questions on their minds.
Despite its size, the house radiated warmth. "Wow… your home is so clean," Reiko said softly, her eyes sweeping over the room in admiration.
The old man smiled. "Thank you. That is all Oharu's doing."
He moved toward a small closet and pulled out a futon, laying it carefully on the tatami. "Place her here," he said gently, nodding toward the futon.
Tadatoshi lowered Oharu with surprising delicacy, her small body resting lightly on the futon. "Huh… so you can be gentle," Reiko remarked, teasing. Both she and Sentarō stared at him, incredulous.
"What's that supposed to mean?!" Tadatoshi shouted, flailing his arms comically in mock outrage.
"Anyway," he said, straightening, "now she's on the futon, my job here is done."
Sentarō and Reiko were about to leave, but the old man stopped them. "Wait. Stay for a cup of green tea. You must be tired."
A small smile crept onto Sentarō's face. Reiko nodded, feeling the tension ease slightly for the first time since the fight.
"Tch. Forget green tea," Tadatoshi said, rubbing his stomach and shooting the old man a grin. "Do you have any sake?"
The old man blinked, startled. "Sake? You're far too young for that!"
"I'M OLD ENOUGH TO DRINK WHATEVER I WANT!" Tadatoshi yelled, chest puffed comically, a mix of pride and defiance in his eyes.
"I… I don't have any sake," the old man admitted, playing along with a clueless look.
"Then what was the point of asking, old man?!" Tadatoshi shouted again, pointing a finger.
The bickering continued for a few more moments before Tadatoshi finally muttered, "No sake, then there's no reason for me to stay," and began heading toward the door.
Sentarō called after him, urging him to wait. "We should all return to the police headquarters together!"
But Tadatoshi ignored him completely, stepping outside and slamming the door behind him. Sentarō and Reiko exchanged a glance, disbelief etched on their faces.
The old man simply smiled, shaking his head. "Your friend is… quite energetic," he said, oblivious to the subtle chaos.
After a few moments, the old man brewed green tea and prepared some simple rice. Sentarō and Reiko accepted graciously, bowing slightly as they sat on the tatami. The warmth of the tea and the simplicity of the meal provided a momentary relief from the chaos outside.
Yet even as they ate, the questions continued to gnaw at Sentarō and Reiko. The tension in their minds remained, unyielding.
"Sir?" Reiko finally spoke, breaking the silence.
"No need to be formal," the old man said. "Call me Sadatsune."
"Alright, Mr. Sadatsune," Reiko said, taking a deep breath. She lowered her bowl of rice to sip the green tea. "I have to ask… Oharu is so young. She hasn't lived long, yet she harbors so much hatred toward the police force. And she's not the only one. Why?"
Sadatsune exhaled slowly, letting the question settle before he replied. The weight of his words pressed heavily in the quiet room.
"First, I must thank you again," he began, bowing deeply until his forehead nearly touched the tatami. "You helped an old man like me when most would have looked the other way. That is something rare, and I am truly grateful."
Sentarō reached forward instinctively, attempting to lift him gently. "No… no, it's nothing. We were just doing our jobs."
Sadatsune shook his head, sadness clouding his eyes. "You don't understand. Help like yours is so rare that it carries great significance. And you must have seen it already… from the way the men attacked you. You know this isn't a one-time occurrence."
His words hung heavy in the air. Sentarō and Reiko exchanged glances, feeling an icy chill settle in their stomachs.
"At a young age," Sadatsune continued, his voice low and measured, "Oharu experienced a great loss… at the hands of those who were meant to protect. The very people sworn to uphold justice—her parents—were taken from her."
The words struck Sentarō like a hammer. He turned his gaze to the small wooden carvings on the table and wall—a young man on the table, a young woman on the wall. His chest tightened.
The realization hit him all at once. This small girl, brimming with hatred, had suffered an unimaginable loss. Corruption and cruelty had taken everything from her. Everything.
He could feel the raw, unfiltered grief that had shaped her. He could see, as clearly as if it were happening again, the pain etched into her young face, the terror of losing her parents to those who were supposed to serve justice.
And for the first time, Sentarō understood—this hatred, this venom, was not born from mere anger or stubbornness. It was forged in fire. Pain, betrayal, loss… it had consumed her.
Every question he had ever asked about Oharu's animosity now had an answer. And yet, that answer opened more questions.
What had the police force done to allow this? How deep did the corruption run? And how many more children had suffered the same fate as Oharu?
Sentarō's mind raced as he struggled to comprehend it all. He swallowed hard. This is only the beginning, he thought grimly. There's far more here than any of us could have imagined.
The room fell silent, the only sounds the quiet sipping of tea and the faint creaking of wooden floorboards. Sentarō and Reiko sat frozen, the weight of the revelation pressing down on them like an invisible hand.
In that moment, the three of them—Sentarō, Reiko, and Sadatsune—sat quietly, contemplating the enormity of what had just been revealed.
The police force, the institution he had revered, was rotten to its core. And the consequences of that rot had left scars even on the youngest, most innocent.
Sentarō's grip on his sword tightened unconsciously. He had vowed to protect the people, to uphold justice. But now, that justice was a shadow—a hollow promise, betrayed by those he had been trained to trust.
And in the eyes of a small, unconscious girl, he glimpsed the true cost of that betrayal.
He did not yet know how he would respond. He did not yet know how to right the wrongs inflicted upon Oharu, or the countless others like her.
But one thing was certain.
He could not ignore it.
Not now. Not ever.
The tea cooled between them, the quiet pressing against them like a second presence, heavy with expectation. And for the first time that day, Sentarō allowed himself a single thought, sharp and clear:
We will uncover the truth. No matter the cost.