Chapter 3: An Old Friend Draws His Sword

Kiyoshirō blocked our path, his black kimono stark against the snow. His hand rested on his sword hilt, the air around him practically freezing. He spoke coldly, "The source of those rubbings from the Sutra Repository is unconfirmed. They’re tied to a cold case. Taking them off-site is a direct violation of protocol. By the book, I’m required to seize them."

His voice was hard as iron, though a suppressed tremor lurked beneath it. He was clinging to some crumbling order, his eyes radiating an authority that left no room for argument, effectively shutting down our only route of escape.

I stood in the snow, staring at that familiar yet indifferent face, a bitter taste rising in my throat. We’d debated theories side by side at the academy, yet here we were, dead enemies locked in opposing camps. Kiyoshirō admitted he was under a secret order from the奉行所 to keep watch. He denied any involvement in the shipwreck, insisting on using the rules to seal the case and funnel all leads back to the official channels.

He said, “This isn’t personal. It’s just to stop the chaos from spreading. If I let you walk away with that, it’ll only cause a bigger disaster down the line. I have no authority—and I don’t want the responsibility—to take that risk.”

Kana caught his gaze when it drifted elsewhere and shoved a rusted temple door key into my palm. Her fingers were ice-cold but radiated a desperate intensity. She hissed a warning, “The critical rubbing page from the Sutra Repository has already been swapped. The real one is hidden inside the lining of a common sutra. This last-ditch gamble cost me the trust of my entire clan. Watch your step.”

Her eyes were firm, filled with the weight of guardianship. That key felt heavier than a mountain, pressing down until my wrist shook, burdened with unspeakable expectations.

I weighed my options and decided to refuse Kiyoshirō’s invitation to go through official channels. In the tug-of-war between power and truth, the only way to break the deadlock was to touch the evidence with my own hands. I chose to risk creeping into The Ancient Temple to uncover the buried truth. Kiyoshirō didn’t stop me; he just watched, cold eyes on me, as if enjoying a losing bet that was already decided.

His gaze shot past my shoulder to the pitch-black silhouette of the mountains in the distance. I knew this wasn’t just a race against time; it was a game against the one who controlled the rules.

Using the cover of night, I slipped into the back mountain area of The Ancient Temple. The snow fell harder, as if the world was being smothered under a giant white cloth. It blurred my vision but provided natural camouflage for my movements. Kana kept watch in the distance, tapping out faint signals: two short, one long to signal wind direction; three long, two short to warn about the patrol routes of the night watchmen.

I clutched the key tightly. My fingers went numb with cold, losing all feeling, yet a small, unquenchable fire burned in my heart, lighting the path through the chaos ahead.

Using cryptic techniques, I decoded the correlation between the Bronze Seal and the rubbings. The seemingly random markings revealed hidden coordinates when viewed from a specific angle. This wasn’t just an anti-counterfeit mark; it was my father’s final guidance. Verifying the authenticity was a tedious, precise process, where even the slightest deviation could be fatal.

The wind howled around me like the whispers of ghosts. I had to stay cool, functioning like a precision instrument, catching that sliver of truth amidst the chaos, filtering out all noise, leaving only the core logic.

Delving into the depths of the Sutra Repository, I discovered that the swapped sutra page hadn’t vanished. It was cleverly tucked into the cavity of a Buddhist shrine. The light was dim, only a few dying candles swaying in the wind, casting mottled, dancing shadows. Between the ancient wooden fish and the yellowed scrolls lay a secret capable of overturning the entire case.

Sweat pricked my palms as I carefully reached into the gap. My fingertips brushed against the cold paper backing, and for a moment, my heartbeat nearly stopped. Time seemed to freeze. The air was thick with the scent of rotting paper and old lies, the smell of time itself.

Kiyoshirō caught my scent. He arrived at The Ancient Temple with his blade, sealing off the exits. His footsteps echoed in the vast, empty hall, each one landing squarely on my chest, a steady, oppressive rhythm like a countdown. Using his superior knowledge of the dojo’s layout as a master trainer, he cut off every retreat I had.

In this sealed space, I was a fish in a bowl, and he was the hunter with the knife. Dust motes danced in the candlelight, silent witnesses to our wordless standoff.

I used the temple’s complex layout to weave around Kiyoshirō. Moving like a shadow among the flying eaves and interlocking brackets, I hunted for an opening. He didn’t rush to draw his sword, instead using his words to inch me into a corner. His sword tip stayed aimed at my throat, never truly striking.

It was a battle of minds. He waited for me to make a mistake, while I waited for a chance. Every dodge came with the hiss of my hem tearing through the air, the tension so tight it hurt my teeth.

Finally, I found the key sutra page. Hidden within were the encrypted codes for the cargo manifest of the sunken ship—the ironclad proof of the fleet’s true fate. I cracked it quickly, translating the vague numbers into clear, damning accusations.

Mizumaru’s ledger, my father’s private seal, and this swapped page—all the threads tied together in a net, pointing to that seasoned, powerful excavation official. The ink bled under the candlelight, looking like bloodstains, a terrifying sight.

Kiyoshirō pressed in on me. I held up the decryption key, trying to use the evidence to break the deadlock. I raised the sheet covered in my translation results high; the candlelight illuminated the ink, making it crystal clear. I challenged him: with the proof right here, would he still use the rules to bury the truth? His eyes flickered for a split second. That moment of hesitation was the only crack I saw, like an undercurrent surging beneath frozen ice.

Kiyoshirō stared me down, coldly emphasizing that legal procedure was inviolable. He refused to accept the physical evidence directly, arguing that untested testimony and private acquisition had zero legal weight. He insisted on handing all materials over to the奉行所 for the officials to decide.

In his world, procedural justice trumped outcome justice, even if that outcome was twisted by power. He had to hold that cold line. His voice was low, carrying a chilling kind of rationality.

I used the temple’s mechanisms to create a brief distraction. I kicked over a nearby candlestand, triggering a hidden boulder trap. Stones crashed down, filling the air with dust and smoke. Taking advantage of the obscured view, I burst through the blockade and ran for the temple gate. Kiyoshirō didn’t chase. He stood his ground, letting me vanish into the snow and mist. I knew that once I took this step, there was no turning back.

I ran into the snowy night with the evidence. Looking back, I saw Kiyoshirō still standing there, not pursuing. The deadlock seemed broken, but that unsheathed sword still hung overhead. This game had only just begun. The storm continued, erasing all traces, burying the storm that was about to come.

Kana emerged from the shadows, breathless. Her hands clutched a cold iron key so tightly her knuckles were white. She kept her voice down, trembling with suppressed emotion: “Under the third floor tile on the west side of the Sutra Repository, a swapped rubbing is sealed.

Kiyoshirō said it was fake, but I’m betting he’s afraid to touch the real one, because it documents the key testimony from the shipwreck case. Once that’s exposed, his patron falls.”

I took the key; the biting cold shot through my fingertips. Time was running out. Kiyoshirō’s silence wasn’t giving up; it was setting a bigger trap. I spun and charged back into The Ancient Temple. The wooden door slammed shut behind me with a heavy “thud,” as if sealing the last barrier between life and death.

Inside was colder and gloomier than outside. The mix of sandalwood and rotting wood made it hard to breathe. I climbed the stone steps, each footstep crunching on the snow-covered bluestone. Moonlight filtered through the sparse branches, casting mottled shadows in the long corridor, like ghosts dancing. The door to the Sutra Repository was ajar. I held my breath and pushed it open.

Inside was dim, with only a faint glimmer at the far end. I felt my way forward, and suddenly, the ground gave way beneath me—a trap! Instinctively, I dove to the left. A thin steel wire sliced through where I’d been standing, letting out a harsh metallic screech. My heart lurched; cold sweat instantly soaked my back.

Kiyoshirō hadn’t just failed to chase me; he’d set a kill zone inside the temple. This wasn’t a trap; it was a meticulously designed death loop.

Forcing down the fear, I crept deeper. Beside the floor tiles, I knelt and used the key to pry up the loose slab. In the darkness, a yellowed booklet lay waiting.

I pulled out the rubbing page and examined it in the dim light. The handwriting was so familiar it made my stomach drop—it was the missing “cargo manifest” from the shipwreck case files ten years ago. It detailed not just the lost goods, but the birth dates and fates of three missing monks.

Just then, I heard the sound of a wooden bolt sliding into a lock outside, followed by heavy footsteps approaching. Each step seemed to land on my heart. Kiyoshirō’s voice cut through the thick wooden door, carrying a cruel kindness: “You could have come back and had tea with me. Why seek death? Now, drop the evidence, and I might still spare your life.”

I gripped the rubbing, a wave of desperate chill washing over me. He had sealed every exit. Even in the corridor I’d come in from, I heard the sharp click of a second door locking shut. The Ancient Temple had become an island, surrounded by silent snow, and inside, it was just me and that closing shadow.

I slowly stood up, scanning the pitch-black night sky through the window. I suddenly noticed that the window leading to the back mountain had been blocked by a massive boulder, I didn’t know when.

A bitter smile curled at the corner of my mouth. I tucked the rubbing into my robes. Kiyoshirō calculated that I would definitely come, but he miscalculated one thing—I wasn’t here to take evidence. I was here to keep an appointment.