Tamayo set to brewing the medicine, and I confirmed Koyuki's condition through the [Revealed World].
Though she could diagnose without my assistance, I applied my power for a more precise reading.
Of course, my medical knowledge alone is not exceptional, so I relayed what I saw and let Tamayo make the ultimate judgment.
Having lived a long while, I could gauge some conditions myself, but in this realm of expertise, Tamayo is unquestionably more adept.
In any case, we would have to remain at the Soryu dojo a little longer.
It seemed unexpectedly that crafting the remedy to cure Koyuki's ailment would take some time.
We would need several days of dosing and close observation of her condition.
And now, here I was.
"Then, thank you in advance!"
"Thank you in advance."
I stood before Keijo.
The boy sat beside us, observing the both of us.
I wondered why I was the one facing him, but Keijo had made the request.
He said he wished to show the boy the art of Soryu and asked me to spar with him.
Thus, this match was something of a performance to pique the boy's interest.
Keijo seemed to have chosen the boy as his successor for the Soryu style.
A man whose frame alone had felled seven full-grown men with his bare hands.
Though he had been floored by Keijo's flurry, he rose again in under seven minutes — such was his iron constitution.
Yet he harbored no bitterness toward Keijo and possessed a noble spirit — more than enough to make him a fitting heir.
Even if vermin stirred trouble, he would not walk away from the fray.
Having chosen to take him in as an adopted son, seeing him carry on the art would doubtless be his greatest hope.
I had no pressing matters of my own, so I did not refuse Keijo's request.
After exchanging salutations, Keijo slid his right foot back, sharpened his left hand's blade, and clasped his right fist to his chest.
It was a preparatory posture melding the features of Taekwondo and Karate.
It must be the opening form of the Soryu art he employed.
I returned his salute and adopted my own posture.
I, of course, neither drew my Nichirin Blade nor employed any Breathing Style.
It might seem absurd for a swordsman to clash knuckles with a martial artist's fists,
yet I had studied self-defense under Uzui,
and with the physical edge granted by my demon's markings, true disadvantage lay with Keijo.
Keijo took the initiative.
He sprang into the stance and lurched forward, unleashing a straight punch at blinding speed.
It was the punch of a mortal martial artist, wrought without any Breathing Style or demonic boon.
It was a strike worthy of a dojo master's station,
yet to one who had transcended into the [Revealed World], it unfolded in slow motion.
Since I did not wish to truly best him, I evaded at the very rim of his reach, making each dodge appear razor-thin.
As I slipped the punch, Keijo flowed into a spinning kick without pause.
I intercepted the kick at close quarters with the edge of my hand.
Keijo, whose kick had thudded against my hand, retreated a pace to reset his stance.
"Ha ha! Solid as rock! Feels like I kicked steel!"
"Well, I have confidence in my physique, after all."
And so we continued to exchange blows and defenses.
I evaded at the very limit of his perception,
and countered with such speed that he could only just slip away, delivering a blow suitably mighty to look like true martial prowess.
Speaking of which, they called this Soryu, did they not?
It is remarkable indeed.
A few exchanges had already revealed much.
Some strikes flowed with graceful fluidity,
while others were raw and fierce.
Yet the form remained unbroken,
honest in its intent yet as sharp as a beast's claw.
What might occur should one fuse this art with Total Concentration Breathing…?
Though reach might be an issue in battling demons, it remains a splendid technique.
Surely, it was not by accident that he had received land and a dojo for nothing but his character and skill.
No wonder that esteemed elder had been enthralled by his technique.
As I thrust my fist, I asked him, "Soryu: is that an inherited art, or did you devise it yourself?"
Unconsciously, I found the flow of Soryu woven into my own punch.
"A genius!"
Realizing the nature of my strike, Keijo's narrow eyes snapped wide. He brushed away my fist with the blade of his hand and reached to seize my collar.
Jujutsu, was it?
I pressed my foot against his abdomen and gently shoved to put distance between us.
He even resorts to grappling, this fellow.
"Hah, I can't get a hold of you!"
Contrary to his words, he fiddled with the hand that had tried to grab my collar, his face betraying not a hint of regret.
"I must admit, it is a technique I devised myself," Keijo replied with a grin.
He made it himself...
In an age before Karate or Taekwondo, he would have had no precedent to draw upon.
Ha, calling it a matter for shame? Such humility as this is beyond measure.
At this caliber, one could rightly call it a groundbreaking martial art.
Keijo stamped back into the stance, ready once more.
"By the way, you felt a few of my strikes and you already mimic my punch. You truly must become my disciple!"
Honestly now.
"I'm not doing that."
Koyuki truly was delicate of health.
I stayed at her side through the night, changing her pajamas and placing cool towels on her head.
I gave her the medicine exactly when the physician had instructed.
She needed plenty of water, so I must support her whenever she went to the privy.
Yet,
I had cared for my father before, and my own constitution was stronger than most,
so it was not particularly arduous.
Having come to the master's dojo to tend the sick, I resolved to see her through with my utmost effort.
As I always did, I drew water from the well, soaked a towel in it, and applied it cold to Koyuki's forehead.
"Thank you…"
As the towel touched her brow, Koyuki opened her lips with a strained voice.
"You need not say anything. Please, rest without worry."
I shook my head to reassure her and sat by the tatami door.
"I'm sorry… for being such a burden…"
In her apology, I saw something.
Cough, cough. "Hakuji, forgive me…"
I saw it once more.
The image of my father, coughing yet always offering me apologies, returned.
Why was this?
My father had been the same, and so was Koyuki.
Once I confirmed Koyuki had fallen into a light slumber, I withdrew the beanbag from inside my coat.
Why do those suffering illness feel compelled to apologize?
They have done nothing wrong.
The ones in pain are themselves.
Even if they wish not to trouble others, the trouble they cause is not their choice.
They themselves must bear the greatest hardship.
Why is it that the one who suffers most offers the apologies?
And besides,
what on earth was my master thinking?
The match my master had shown me with the kasa-wearer then.
My master's Martial Art was undoubtedly formidable.
It was straightforward yet unrefined.
It was gentle yet fierce.
Even to one unversed in the martial path, it felt supremely excellent.
But why had he shown it to me?
I did not know.
What could he have seen in me to entrust Koyuki's care to my hands?
What did he see in me to exhibit his art before my eyes?
I kept tossing the beanbag into the air, mulling it over continuously.
As I fed her the medicine, I turned it over in my mind.
No matter how I turned it over, no answer came, and my worries stretched on until the night deepened.
Once I confirmed Koyuki had fallen asleep, I stepped outside the room.
Outside, I saw the kasa-wearer gazing at the moon from the veranda.
He too was a strange man.
It was odd enough that he had copied my master's technique after seeing it only a few times, yet he seemed to have tempered his skill to match my master's level.
Though he could have done more, he restrained himself with unmistakable poise.
Moreover, though he bore an aristocratic countenance, he showed no hesitation in honoring a mere commoner like my master.
He neither flaunted arrogance nor condescended, giving no heed to formalities.
I remained utterly in the dark.
I stepped carefully to avoid disturbing him.
"You seem burdened by much thought."
But all my caution was for naught; he saw through me at once.
He met my gaze calmly, as though he already knew.
"You can tell, then?"
Looking into his crimson eyes gave me a strange tickling sensation — as if he pierced through every thought in my heart.
He shifted his gaze back to the moon and continued speaking.
"Believe it or not, reading another's expression is my forte. When my sister or dearest friend grapples with worry, they wear the same look as you now."
So he had a sister and a friend, did he.
Worry… concern, indeed.
Before I knew it, I sat beside him,
and gazed upon the moon.
My thoughts which I could not cease to turn over.
It felt odd to voice these thoughts to my master.
Yet, the kasa-wearer was but a visitor soon to depart; perhaps I could speak freely to him.
"Why do those afflicted by illness apologize?"
"I'm sorry for causing you trouble."
"I'm sorry for coughing so hard."
"I'm sorry that I'm helpless."
These were the words I had heard so often from both my father and Koyuki.
They surely wished to manage for themselves.
They must have wished to stop coughing.
If only they could breathe as usual.
They themselves suffer the most.
Why do they apologize?
They need not apologize.
They could simply rely on others.
They need not be crushed by guilt and depart from this world burdened…
"The reason they apologize, eh?"
He still gazed at the moon as he spoke.
"It is because their hearts are strong."
Hearts strong?
"You must think of it otherwise, boy. It is not the sick who apologize; it is the one who apologizes who is ill."
I had never thought of it that way.
"Some take their illness as a shield, expecting care as their due. If one were compensated, that might be understandable, but to spend oneself in goodwill caring for another is no trivial matter, yet some grow so accustomed they forget this courtesy."
He never once shifted his gaze from the moon as he continued.
"But one who truly cares for others knows this and does not forget. So they worry for their caregiver more than for their own ailing body, offer gratitude to them, and feel sorrow for the freedom their caretaker has sacrificed. That is what it means to have a strong heart."
Come to think of it, my father
never had taken caring for me for granted.
He always apologized, and always felt regret.
Even when his cough stained the cloth red,
"I'm sorry…"
My father never ceased in his apologies.
He need not have felt sorry.
He need not have apologized.
He had done nothing wrong.
At that moment,
a phrase flickered through my mind.
"Live earnestly. There is still time to change."
The words written in my father's final testament.
So that was it.
Now I understand.
My father was strong in heart; because he thought of me first,
thus he passed from this world.
Perhaps he felt his presence kept me from moving forward.
Merely…
I was doing it simply because I loved it.
He needn't have considered me a burden.
Father…
"Boy."
He continued speaking.
"We do not mingle as one; as two, our forms remain distinct. Without a third eye, there is no hope for a fourth direction. The fifth lies in the place where the heart resides."
…
"Humankind does not blend; we see that which differs. Thus, hearts may often wander undiscerning, and one may drift this way and that."
Then he turned to me and offered a faint smile.
"Yet in the end, there is always the heart. A person is inevitably drawn to that place, for one grows strong for the sake of others. Even if paths diverge, if the heart's compassion remains unchanged, it will surely steer toward a single purpose."
Those who fight for others are strong.
My father was not weak but strong; because he was strong, he apologized.
Being strong, he did not fear death.
But, Father.
I understand that you took your life for my sake,
but I wished for you to live on.
I wanted you to savor more delicious meals.
I wanted you to take the medicine and recover from your illness.
I exhaled deeply, gazed at the moon, and vowed within my heart:
So don't feel sorry there anymore.
I… was happy to be born your son.
Even that discipline never hurt at all.
So…
I will do my best again.
This time, I will ensure that child never shares the same thought as you ever did…
I do not know.
A sudden laughter welled up, and my eyes blurred.
"Therefore, boy, just like that child who cares for others, become someone who aids others."
I rubbed my eyes and looked at him as he spoke.
"I am not called 'Boy.' I am Hakuji, young man."
He let out a suppressed laugh and then spoke his own name.
"Tsugikuni Michikatsu."