Chapter 19: Silver Soul (Era of Rebellion)

Birds must crawl back to the lair of gray mice. Once their wings are broken, even those who once soared high can only drag themselves along the ground. Their pure white feathers turn gray, and they hide in holes like mice. But even if it’s a filthy rat’s nest, they must crawl back to it.

Okakura Take carried a long sword with its tip broken and supported Kumamoto, whose face was smeared with blood. Kumamoto was a head taller than she, a member of the assassination squad whom Okakura had found during their escape. He was cowering, covered in blood, behind a garbage bin. Had it been any other day, Okakura Take could have easily carried him while fleeing. But now, she no longer had that strength. For the first time, she felt a bone-deep weariness, as if her whole body was about to fall apart.

“Birds must crawl back to the lair of gray mice…” Kumamoto chuckled softly. “Okakura, the shogunate police are still after us. Leave me here. You’re nearly out of strength, aren’t you…”

“Don’t worry, your weight is nothing to me. Light as a newly hatched chick,” Okakura Take replied in a breezy tone.

“A two-meter-tall chick? Ha! The hen that could lay such a chick must be a monster herself.” Kumamoto laughed, but his voice was frailer than usual. “Speaking of chicks, I suddenly feel hungry. I want to eat my mother’s tempura. You know, Okakura, my mother is timid and nags a lot—a real handful, and I have no idea how my father ever fell for her. But whenever she’s with me, she always feigns toughness, even though she’s terrified of cockroaches. She pretends to be brave in front of me. I used to think I’d never marry a woman like my mother, far too troublesome. But now… I really miss her.”

Okakura Take turned to look at the tall man beside her, his once-bright and hearty demeanor now replaced by exhaustion and confusion. She thought, he must be so tired…

“Are you hungry?” Okakura Take stopped and asked.

“I am, a bit. Didn’t get enough to eat this afternoon,” Kumamoto replied, rubbing his stomach with a wry smile.

“Wait here.” With that, Okakura Take reached inside her clothes, feeling around her chest where she’d hidden some buns. After rummaging a bit, she pulled out two buns, misshapen and stained with a little blood. She held them out to Kumamoto.

“Want some? They look a bit rough, but they’ll fill you up. If you mind, just peel off the outer skin.”

Kumamoto stared at the buns for ten seconds before taking them. He didn’t bother peeling off the skin, just bit straight in.

“Never thought these last two buns would end up back in my mouth,” Kumamoto said as he chewed.

“It’s just returning to the rightful owner,” Okakura Take replied. She hoisted Kumamoto’s arm over her shoulder and kept moving forward. Kumamoto finished the buns quickly, and when Okakura Take wasn’t looking, his eyelids drooped shut, his head gently resting against her shoulder.

Okakura Take stopped and placed her hand under Kumamoto’s nose.

“Idiot, you’re only asleep? You scared me to death.” She sighed with relief. For a moment, she’d thought Kumamoto had died…

Thankfully, he was still alive. Okakura Take hefted him onto her back. Kumamoto was so much taller that even as she tried to lift him higher, his feet dragged along the ground. But Okakura Take didn’t care; she simply carried him on, step by step.

Birds must crawl back to the lair of gray mice. The “birds” were the patriots pursuing expulsion of the foreigners. Their temporary hideout was in a rundown inn in Kabukicho—filthy and dilapidated, tucked away in a remote corner seldom visited, its residents mostly penniless outcasts or those who couldn’t survive in the light.

Okakura Take spent a long time weaving through winding alleys, finally shaking off the shogunate police. When at last no one was chasing them, she brought Kumamoto back to the battered inn. They’d rented out an entire floor. Okakura Take climbed to the second floor with Kumamoto on her back, and saw many soldiers who had already escaped back.

They sat on the floor, exhausted and wounded. At the sound of Okakura Take’s entrance, everyone looked over warily. Upon recognizing her and Kumamoto, their tense expressions eased.

“Okakura, you’re back. I was so worried about you—are you alright?” Ando rushed over as soon as he saw her. Quick-witted and fast, he’d been assigned to the intelligence squad and had escaped early.

“I’m fine, Ando. I can barely keep going, though. Help me get Kumamoto off my back,” Okakura said tiredly.

“Rare to hear you admit you’re out of strength,” Ando joked as he took Kumamoto, helping him to the resting area for the wounded, where seven or eight others lay, swathed in bandages.

Okakura Take found a spot and sat down, utterly drained. She rested her head on her knees for a while before lifting it and looking around. The intelligence squad had mostly returned, but only a dozen from the assassination squad and her defensive unit had made it back.

As she surveyed the room, a man sat down beside her. She glanced over—it was Uncle Kuramoto, his gaunt face so dark it was hard to make out his features in the dim light.

“Uncle Kuramoto…” Okakura Take began, but fell silent, unsure what to say next.

Kuramoto stretched his legs out against the wall, his whole body reeking of medicine. Okakura Take noticed his left hand was missing two fingers, his neck plastered over, his arms covered in bandages.

“Uncle, your hand?” Okakura Take asked in alarm.

Kuramoto sighed and slowly raised his left hand before his eyes.

“No one lives up to the name ‘God of Destruction’ like Matsudai