It’s nothing special.
This is just a ridiculous, meaningless tale.
“Did you beat someone up again, Hakuji?”
“How long are you going to keep playing go?”
“I don’t know. Kokushibo says he likes you.”
“I don’t need that!”
This is simply the story of how I kept running into weird old codgers.
**
I got beaten.
Beaten down.
Beaten again.
At the branch detention center, they beat me relentlessly.
Whenever they caught me, they beat me, and they tattooed the mark of a criminal onto my skin.
It was my everyday life.
So, it didn’t hurt me at all.
“The pickpocketing tattoo is up to three lines on each arm now. Next time, I’ll just cut off your wrists.”
So what?
I was threatened with the loss of my hands, but I didn’t care.
“Anyway, I won’t get caught next time!”
If you plan to cut them off, go right ahead.
Even if both my wrists are gone, I still have my feet.
Even if my hands are gone, I can just steal with my toes.
“You’re the child of a monster.”
So what.
Since I was eleven, they said I committed crimes as often as I ate.
They said not even a grown man could remain conscious after a hundred lashes of the whip, yet I never broke.
Even if they called me a monster and scolded me, I didn’t care.
Let them talk as much as they want.
I was practically born with teeth, anyway.
More than anything, money was all that mattered.
I would steal as much as I could.
If I lost my arms, I’d steal with my legs.
And if I lost my legs too, I’d use my mouth.
I had to steal and bring it home, no matter the cost.
Because I needed money.
I needed it more than anything in the world.
The reason I clung to pickpocketing despite the beatings was—
“Have you come… Hakuji…?”
It was to bring medicine to my father.
My father had fallen ill.
When I was young, he looked stronger than anyone, but now he was wasting away.
The once sturdy man had bones that jutted out beneath his skin more and more each day.
He needed medicine to recover, but we were far too poor to afford any.
Our family was destitute.
Someone once told me that if you do something wrong, you must reflect on your actions.
Someone else said you must live honestly.
What a joke.
No matter how hard we tried, there was never enough money, and medicine was outrageously expensive.
That was the reality of poverty.
In the depths of poverty, calls for reflection felt like nothing more than hypocrisy.
Similarly, honest work wasn’t enough.
Even saving every penny honestly couldn’t put food on the table.
An honest living still couldn’t heal my father.
So I stole.
I tried to scrape together money by pickpocketing.
The only thing this poor boy possessed was a resilient body.
My body was unnaturally strong—strong enough to be called monstrous.
Even in this wretched poverty, I was grateful to this cruel world for giving me this strength.
Getting caught meant punishment, but when I thought of my father, the pain was mere tickles.
I could endure a thousand lashes or a hundred broken bones for him.
Even if they branded me as a criminal, I didn’t care, as long as my father could eat.
If my scars could heal my father, then the marks on my body meant nothing to me.
And yet.
That should have been enough.
Then, as always, on my way back from the detention center after another beating,
a panting old man from next door rushed over to deliver unbelievable news.
“He heard you’d been caught again and hanged himself. He’s dead!!”
My father was dead.
He had taken his own life.
There was no such thing as a fancy funeral for people like us.
They simply buried him in the dirt, placed a small stone inscribed with his name atop the mound, and that was it.
The stone on his grave was—
Extremely small.
He had grown frail, yes, but never this small…
I cradled that little stone and wept endlessly.
Why?
Why did you die, Father?
His last words were written as follows:
“You can still start anew.”
“I cannot bear to live by taking from others.”
“I’m sorry for everything.”
“‘Sorry for everything’…”
Why was Father apologizing? He did nothing wrong.
Is a poor man not even allowed to exist?
What did we ever do wrong?
We couldn’t eat like others, nor could we heal like others.
Is poverty such a great sin?
I resented the world.
As for this damn world, it could go straight to hell.
I took to the streets, swinging my fists.
I wandered away from Edo, throwing punches at everything in my path.
Punches without a target carry a different kind of force.
Damn them all.
As I swung those fists, adults fell before me.
Why do scumbags like these get to live, while my father had to die?
My father never harmed a soul.
Why should he have had to apologize?
Even if he was whipped savagely or his bones were shattered—
Even if he was told to reflect, to live honestly, or called a monster’s child—
He could have endured it all for my sake.
Father.
I wanted to feed you something nourishing.
I wanted to cure your illness myself.
So why did you hang yourself?
I dropped the last man with a brutal knee strike.
There were gasps of shock from the crowd, but I beat them all down.
Around me, only terrified adults stood watching.
Then.
“Oh— oh— impressive!”
A man in a gi approached, applauding.
Beside him was a peculiar fellow, wrapped from head to toe and wearing a sedge hat.
“They thought a kid was about to die and called me over, but it seems he laid out seven grown men bare-handed?”
“I reckon this is the fellow... I’ll fetch some supplies—take care of him as you see fit.”
The man in the hat stepped aside, and the smiling man drew closer to me.
“You’ve got talent, kid. Beating adults without a weapon—good stuff.”
Who is this old man?
“Why not come train at my dojo? I’ve only got one student.”
“Geez, I’m not one of your disciples!”
“Tch! What a stingy lot.”
Rage welled up inside me.
They were treating me like a child.
“Shut up, you damn old codger! I’ll kill you!!”
My wrath exploded, and I snarled at him without thinking.
But the man in the gi wasn’t angry at my outburst.
“That tattoo marks you as a criminal of Edo? You got exiled and drifted into this neighborhood?”
With a calm, smiling face, he simply pointed to my aching finger.
A criminal of Edo.
A tattoo.
…
Right.
I am a criminal.
The tattoo on my arm proves it.
I got that tattoo to save my father, but—
Still, I was a criminal who failed to save him.
I gritted my teeth.
This fellow knows nothing.
Don’t spout nonsense with that smiling face.
“So what are you gonna do then?! This has nothing to do with you!”
I burned with fury.
Just seeing that smile made my blood boil.
He thinks he can preach to me despite knowing nothing.
He’s never known a single day of poverty in his life, just like those other adults…!
Then, he shifted his right foot back, sharpened his left hand like a blade, and clenched his right into a fist.
The man took his stance.
“Alright! First, be born anew, boy. Come at me!!”
Seriously.
I told you not to treat me like a kid!
“Die, you damn old codger!!”
Clenching my fist, I charged at him.
My punch was fierce.
After all, I had just laid out seven grown men.
Surely, this old man was no great shakes, either.
That’s what I thought.
But…
His body twisted, and his right fist smashed into my face.
My punch never even reached him.
And then,
his left fist cracked against my cheek.
As if to leave me no opening, that right fist buried itself in my gut.
And once more to the jaw.
Once again to the face.
Just like in the detention center, I couldn’t fight back as he pounded me.
But, somehow,
his punches hurt far more than the lashings ever did.
Yet, it didn’t feel as dirty as those whippings.
**
By the force of those rapid strikes, the delinquent who had beaten seven men finally fell.
No, that’s not right.
My face wasn’t just swollen—it was an angry purple.
Why did he strike my solar plexus?
And not a jab, but a straight…!
“Hey, you there! What do you think you’re doing, bashing a kid like a dog on the hottest day of summer?”
At the scolding, the man in the gi scratched his head and chuckled.
“Whoo, this boy! Your punch packs a wallop. I almost found myself on the losing end.”
As if.
I didn’t even hit you.
And that’s your excuse?
You just shredded me like a pork cutlet.
Why are the people I meet always out of their minds?
At this point, maybe the problem lies with me.
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