A familiar place near home would be good for honoring the soul.
Fortunately, I already knew Shabana's house. Katsu had proudly reported it when he found Shabana's residence. I ordered Nakime to move the location to the outskirts of a village close to the house.
I carried Shabana's neck myself.
Kokushibo had offered to take it, but I had not the slightest intention of yielding this role.
Even so, I couldn't carry the blood-soaked headcloth as it was, so I chose a suitable jar from those offered by Gyokko and placed the neck inside. Wrapped in luxurious fabric, it looked like an expensive antique at a glance.
Kibutsuji Muzan led the way, followed by Kokushibo, who had reduced his eyes to four to disguise himself as human. Relying on the full moon's light, the two were silent the whole way toward the house.
In front of Shabana's house, which we finally arrived at, there was unexpectedly a visitor. An old man wearing a high-quality kimono was holding his hands together in prayer before a raised earthen mound.
Seeing the earthen mound with only a few pitiful stones placed on it, I vaguely understood. That must be my friend's grave.
Perhaps grown dull to presences in old age, the old man didn't notice our approach until Kibutsuji Muzan spoke up, saying, "Excuse me."
Startled and turning around, the old man blinked at the unfamiliar faces, but when he saw Kokushibo standing behind Kibutsuji Muzan with a sword at his waist, he openly frowned.
"Who are you people? What business does a samurai have in such a place?"
A rude tone. I could have killed him for interfering with mourning my friend, but I didn't. Because I thought I might hear something about this life's friend.
Judging by his coming to pay respects until late at night, they might have been close. It also felt unpleasant to stain my friend's grave with blood, which was another reason I didn't kill him.
Kibutsuji Muzan tried his best to appear harmless and pretended to be a timid young man so as not to provoke the old man's displeasure. When he pitifully lowered his eyes and said he had heard rumors of Doctor Shabana's death and had come, the old man quickly dropped his guard.
When I added the lie, "Doctor Shabana once saved my life," the old man seemed to mistake Kibutsuji Muzan for a noble's son and Kokushibo for his guard, apologizing for his earlier rudeness.
The old man introduced himself as Kyōgoku.
Given his dignified air and ample build, I thought he might be the retired owner of a large shop, but he said he was the owner of a brothel.
"Shabana has been connected to this place since the old master was still alive. So I've known Shabana—no, Tsukuru—since he was a little kid."
When I asked to hear about Shabana, Old Man Kyōgoku readily agreed. Sitting naturally on the veranda as if it were his own house, Old Man Kyōgoku rolled a pipe between his fingertips and unraveled old memories.
Shabana's house, which also served as a clinic, was eerily quiet, and it seemed no one lived there anymore.
"He was called Tsukuru, that person?"
Kibutsuji Muzan handled the old man entirely. His gentle speech, reminiscent of a noble's son, made a good impression on the old man. Kokushibo remained silent, merely listening to their conversation.
"Yes. With the characters for moon (月) and flow (流), it was Tsukuru."
"An unusual reading."
"Ah. …Originally, he was called Tsukinagashi."
Kibutsuji Muzan's eyebrows twitched slightly. For him, who was well-versed in ancient and modern pharmacology from east and west in his research to overcome the sun, that name was not unfamiliar.
"…An abortifacient?"
"That's right."
Old Man Kyōgoku took a deep puff from his pipe.
"That kid's mother was a courtesan at a red-light district. Perhaps because of that, she reached for a wandering medicine, saying the child in her womb was a burden."
"But he was born in the end, wasn't he? Was the medicine fake?"
"No, it was half real. So the effect took hold ambiguously."
Smoke rising from the pipe's end melted into the winter night sky like a ghost.
"Tsukuru had weak lungs."
Kokushibo, sitting beside, quietly drew in a breath. But Old Man Kyōgoku, unaware, continued his story.
"He had no problem living normally, but if he pushed himself, it would immediately become serious. When was it… Yes, around age five. The old master returned from a house call to find the child collapsed in the yard, barely breathing."
"What happened then?"
"Who knows. They said he was collapsed with a stick tightly gripped in his hand, so perhaps he was playing samurai or something."
I pretended not to notice Kokushibo's emotions trembling. The smell of heart-rending hatred wafted. Whether he was silently cursing gods, buddhas, this world, or the mother who swallowed Tsukinagashi.
"Being an active kid, it must have been frustrating not being able to run and play like his peers. After collapsing, he burst into tears, and the old master seemed heavy-hearted too.
Though he treated him strictly as a disciple, since that guy was unmarried, he cherished Tsukuru like a grandchild. …He even closed the clinic in the village and moved to this inconvenient place because it was said being in the bamboo forest would improve his health. That says it all."
I see, so he could move somewhat better only in the bamboo forest. Kibutsuji Muzan understood.
I had wondered how, with lungs so weak he'd have trouble even breathing properly, he could have defeated Lower Moon Six and Upper Moon Six, but come to think of it, both battlefields were bamboo forests.
"Tsukuru was excited too. He'd make a bamboo sword and whenever he had a chance, play sword… no, is it rude to call that play?"
Old Man Kyōgoku looked at the long-untended garden with eyes mixed with nostalgia and loneliness. As if projecting memories of days past, the boy in his memory, he narrowed his aged eyes.
"It was beautiful. Truly beautiful… swordsmanship."
Kokushibo's presence changed. The thick smell of hatred that had wafted until just moments ago cut off abruptly, replaced by joy that seemed about to burst forth.
Even though he wasn't given the vessel to nurture talent, even though the talent to strive was taken away, he never let go of the sword in the end. Could there be greater joy than this?
"No, truly splendid. I've never seen such graceful swordsmanship."
"…The style?"
It was not the gentle voice of a noble's son that asked that. A solemn, heavy voice—the samurai who had been silent until now.
Startled by the unexpected words from the man who had been motionless like a decoration, Old Man Kyōgoku was momentarily flustered but soon regained composure and shook his greasy head with age.
"I don't know. Even when asked, Tsukuru never told me. He said he didn't want to reveal the name. That the real one was greater, so his current self would be ashamed to utter that name. That it would stain it."
"…I see."
"Ah, but… yes. When asked who he learned from, that kid said this."
A straightened index finger.
Kibutsuji Muzan looked up. At where Old Man Kyōgoku's wrinkled finger pointed.
Kokushibo did not look up. There was no need to look, for he already knew what hung in tonight's sky.
"From the moon, he said."
What flashed through my mind was the smile of the boy who kept vigil that night of his death.
The moon is beautiful, that child said.
Ah—was the moon you saw in this life beautiful too?
*
"Now, suddenly crying? What's the matter, sir?"
"…A bamboo leaf… in my eye…"
"A bamboo leaf in your eye?"
Old Man Kyōgoku was astonished to see the samurai suddenly pressing his eyelids and shaking his shoulders. Moreover, the answer—"from my eye, a bamboo leaf"—was absurdly novel, astonishing him.
If a bamboo leaf had gotten into his eye, he could understand, but producing a bamboo leaf from his eye? Was this samurai the embodiment of bamboo? Even if this was deep in a bamboo forest, such an impossible excuse was unheard of.
"…Please don't mind it, and do continue… the story."
Since he said so, Old Man Kyōgoku glanced suspiciously but didn't press further. It was because Kokushibo instantly hid his tears and returned to a stone-like, expressionless face.
Afterward, Old Man Kyōgoku told various stories intertwined with Shabana Tsukuru. Among them, what particularly caught Kibutsuji Muzan's interest was that he had had a disciple.
If my friend was making poison to kill demons, it was possible the formulation had been passed to the disciple as well.
But according to Old Man Kyōgoku, the disciple was now missing.
"His name was Kyūtarō, I think. And his younger sister was Ume, but she was no ordinary beauty. She was working at my brothel… One day she was assaulted by a samurai and dragged off somewhere. Kyūtarō chased after and since then, no news."
Old Man Kyōgoku said he had a weak heart and couldn't suppress attacks without Shabana's medicine. After Tsukuru died, the disciple succeeded him in preparing the medicine, but even that ran out today.
He laughed lonesomely, saying the next attack would probably be his last.
Around the time the moon began to tilt, Old Man Kyōgoku rose from the veranda. He said he had actually slipped out of the brothel. Though he enjoyed reminiscing and stayed long, he grew anxious, worried the mistress might find out if he stayed later.
So as thanks for the stories, I had Kokushibo see him off. For an old man with a bad heart to hobble along, being carried by a demon with sturdy legs would be much faster.
When the figure of Old Man Kyōgoku carried on Kokushibo's back disappeared from sight, Kibutsuji Muzan also quietly stood up.
"…Excuse me for a moment."
Addressing the contents of the jar held to his chest in a low voice, he stepped into Shabana's house. If there were any materials about the poison left, they had to be disposed of.
A faint dust smell lingered in the old single-story house. The floorboards were completely permeated with winter's chill, and the kitchen hearth inside seemed long extinguished.
He looked into each room one by one. The tatami room immediately upon entering from the hallway. Probably where he received patients.
A tall medicine cabinet rose along the wall. Casually pulling out a few drawers, inside were neatly arranged high-quality medicinal ingredients. For a simple village doctor, it was excessively well-equipped.
"Tianma, tobyōkō, ginseng, …this is asaemon, I see."
Asaemon, sometimes also called jindan or jindanwan, refers to medicinal ingredients made from criminal corpses.
Humans fear demons who eat people as terrifying, yet to be saved from illness, they make medicine from people—what a conveniently living species humans are. Their selfishness isn't much different from demons.
Other medicinal ingredients were amply stocked, but only that one was sparse, which bothered me. Perhaps because it's a rare ingredient, hard to obtain.
Searching the medicine cabinet roughly revealed nothing special, and no poison formulation was seen either. With a short sigh, he headed to the inner room next, but that was a simple bedroom. Nothing particularly worth obtaining seemed there.
Just as he judged so and turned to leave, a pillar in the room caught his eye, and he unconsciously stopped.
The pillar had strange marks. Not just one, but several. Frowning, he stared at the pillar.
But soon realizing the marks' meaning, Kibutsuji Muzan released the tension from his eyes and, unknowingly, softened his threateningly hardened brow.
"…Ah."
As if amused, he slightly raised the corner of his mouth and leaned his forehead against the pillar with a tap. His smile deepened at the thin mark carved at eye level.
"…I see. Your height was about this much."
The marks left on the pillar were for measuring height. With "Tsukuru" carved next to the wound, it was certain.
There were other names on the pillar too. A mark labeled Kyūtarō was around chest height, and Ume was much lower. Multiple marks of different heights were carved side by side, perhaps measured yearly.
──In the Heian era, I mostly lay down, barely able to walk properly. Since standing itself was rare, I never compared heights with my friend nor cared who was taller, but so that's how it was.
"Huhu, small."
Soaking in careless superiority, he addressed the neck in the jar with teasing words. But the deceased had no words, no voice, the neck was just a neck. Quietly asleep inside the jar.
Suddenly, his own laughter sounded ridiculous and hollow, so Kibutsuji Muzan withdrew his smile like a lantern swaying in the wind.
It was lonely.
He left the room. Passing through the hallway with faintly accumulated dust, he arrived at a room full of medical books.
Probably my friend's study. A simple space with nothing but bookshelves densely packed with medical texts and a desk with drawers.
Wondering if perhaps the formulation was there, he searched the desk, but nothing like that was visible. Even the open drawers were empty, containing nothing. Disappointingly so.
Why were the drawers completely empty, even though the bookshelves were crammed relentlessly with medical books, filling gaps to the top?
With an irritated hand, Kibutsuji Muzan forcefully pushed the drawer shut. A sharp sound of wood colliding.
But he noticed a strange noise mixed within. A faint sound as if a piece of paper were caught. If not for a demon's ears, he would have missed it.
Could it be? He pulled out all the drawers. Without hesitation, he reached into the empty space gaping like a monster's mouth, and something caught on his long fingernail. A dry texture.
Pulling it out, it was a flattened, crumpled paper. At a glance, names and quantities of medicinal ingredients. Perhaps the formulation I was looking for.
Carefully unfolding the crumpled paper. His eyes, following the shimmering letters on the wrinkled surface, opened wide.
He checked the contents several times, read and reread repeatedly. Doubting if perhaps he was dreaming a convenient dream. Praying desperately that it be reality if not.
He accepted the formulation's contents in his hand around the tenth thorough reading. Clutching the paper's edge crumpled, Kibutsuji Muzan trembled.
But it was a tremor stemming not from anger, but from unreserved joy and supreme relief.
"………You fool."
It was not poison. It was a medicine formulation.
It was not some deadly poison to kill demons. It was medicine to cure demons.
Medicine and poison are separated by a sheet of paper. Only appearing as poison because it was incomplete, unfinished. My friend never intended to kill me. What I believed was poison was medicine for treatment.
Thinking deeply why he conducted such research, I realized. Surely, it was for me.
I am a demon and that guy was human. Demons and humans cannot coexist. Just as wolves and rabbits cannot live in the same cage.
So, not demon and human, but to dream of a future where we could live together as human and human.
"You fool."
There was no need for such useless worries; you just had to become a demon. If demons and humans cannot live together, then live as demon and demon. You're such a clever fool. Think more simply.
Kibutsuji Muzan quietly let out a sigh. Relieved that he had lost nothing, he loosened his cheeks.
He opened his eyes, which had secretly swallowed tears, narrowly. And smiled.
Quietly, like gardenias holding rain.
・
・
・
Kokushibo had spoken about himself, but Kibutsuji Muzan revealed nothing.
But Kokushibo didn't ask. Since his lord didn't speak, he left it as such.
I liked that attitude of this man.
"The white-haired, red-eyed one I was searching for was this person."
So Kibutsuji Muzan opened his mouth.
Right after Kokushibo returned from the errand and the neck's funeral was finished—before his friend's grave, he said.
"Young Moon, your disciple… the boy missed in the bamboo forest… they too are the existence I seek. Understand. That your goal and mine are the same."
Kibutsuji Muzan had ordered demons to find the white-haired, red-eyed one. But what to do after finding that white-haired, red-eyed one, the specific goal, he hadn't revealed.
The reason for not sharing information wasn't laziness. Because to Kibutsuji Muzan, demons were merely pawns, never trustworthy beings.
How could he call such beings he didn't want to increase his comrades? He had no reason to give them more information than necessary.
"I want to make that guy a demon."
Thus, Kibutsuji Muzan acknowledged.
"You must feel the same, Kokushibo."
He acknowledged this man deeply connected to his friend as a comrade.
"I permit it. Next time you discover it, give him your blood."
"…I am most grateful. Humbly… I shall obey."
Behind Kibutsuji Muzan's back, who didn't turn from the grave, Kokushibo knelt. His deeply bowed voice was soaked with emotion no reward could match, and at that tremor, Kibutsuji Muzan nodded his throat satisfactorily. He liked it.
"Don't miss it this time."
"As you command."
A powerful answer burning with determination in six eyes. In an instant, a biwa sound brushed past the bamboo forest. No one saw the figures of the men who disappeared like phantoms.
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