Hajimemashite. Watashi no Yamaguchi Jiro desu. I’ve been sent by Saigo-sama. He has heard rumors that the Shingengumi plan to the take your life in hopes that the Meiji Restoration dies with it.”
“Fools. It’s far out of my hands now,” Ryoma said. “Or even Saigo-san’s. This is far more the united clan of Satsuma and Choschu rebelling against the Bakufu . Sonno-joi is now the will of Nihon . Repel the barbarians, revere the Emperor.”
Ryoma stood on Edo Bay nearly a master of the sword when US Commodore Perry sailed in upon his three black ships fifteen years ago. It was a stern message. “Open your ports or we’ll blow them open.” And what were foreign goods? The foreigners would surely flood the country with Opium and Christ to overthrow the Emperor in order place the American President in his place. This may seem like the paranoid theories of a xenophobic people, but they’d already seen it happen with the British in China. The West had used their technology to rule Africa, and now had set their sights on Asia.
“But you’re a national treasure.”
Jiro’s katana jumped from its scabbard, cut a silver arc through the air, and split Ryoma’s skull. Ryoma had drawn his weapon out of reflex. It slid from his numb fingers, but he kicked it aside from trying to retrieve it before tripping over his own feet. He cursed himself while watching from the floor on his stomach like a dog. Shinta drew his katana, but Jiro had moved his to his left hand.
The tip of Jiro’s sword flew through the air past Shinta’s guard that did not know how to compensate for a left hand strike, then between his ribs, and through his lung. Ryoma bellowed for the owners of the inn to come. He recognized that style – the style of former spymaster and third Captain of the Shinsengumi Hajime Saito. Saito turned his sword and the ribs cracked under the strain then snapped.
He pulled the sword out and slung the blood. Ryoma was morbidly reminded of a Sumi-e painter cleaning the excess ink from his brush. In this light Shinta’s blood looked like splatters of ink. Ryoma screamed again and scrambled for his gun, but he couldn’t find it. Saito sheathed his katana and walked out the same way he came.
“Somebody! Help! ” Ryoma screamed. “Shinta, we’re going to get you through this. We just got to hold out. If I could find my gun…shit, they’d hear that.”
“Ryoma…” Shinta wheezed. “Y-your face.”
Ryoma touched his face and looked down at his hand. It was filled with deep crimson and gray matter
“I’m not going to make it…they’ve killed me, but now it’s all so God damn meaningless.”
****
Karma is a hell of a thing.
The Tokugawa government has been trying to kill him ever since he mediated the meeting that brought the Choschu and Satsuma clans together. The Bakufu with their swords and bamboo armor would be no match for the Ishin Shishi ’s Winchesters and Howitzers, but it would never come to that. Ryoma had already made sure that Japan will not be torn apart by Civil War. Words had changed the world – not bloodshed. Not even his death would stop the words put into motion. While war within Japan came much later it was never on the scale that it could have been.
The Tokugawa Shogunate sent twenty men to arrest him the very night after the meeting, and he still managed to get away. He stayed in Kyoto to celebrate his great victory. Sonno-joi was changing – it was becoming more than just Ronin randomly killing officials or destroying Tokugawa property. Between Choschu and Satsuma a modern, industrial army and navy would rise with the capabilities of obliterating the antiquated and lethargic samurai like the Western militaries could.
He and his bodyguard Miyoshi stayed the night in the Terada Inn’s Plum Room. The Terada Inn was a favorite amongst young samurai, and Ryoma found one of the waitresses quite fetching. They had been drinking earlier, because the Japanese seal deals like Norse
“Fools. It’s far out of my hands now,” Ryoma said. “Or even Saigo-san’s. This is far more the united clan of Satsuma and Choschu rebelling against the Bakufu . Sonno-joi is now the will of Nihon . Repel the barbarians, revere the Emperor.”
Ryoma stood on Edo Bay nearly a master of the sword when US Commodore Perry sailed in upon his three black ships fifteen years ago. It was a stern message. “Open your ports or we’ll blow them open.” And what were foreign goods? The foreigners would surely flood the country with Opium and Christ to overthrow the Emperor in order place the American President in his place. This may seem like the paranoid theories of a xenophobic people, but they’d already seen it happen with the British in China. The West had used their technology to rule Africa, and now had set their sights on Asia.
“But you’re a national treasure.”
Jiro’s katana jumped from its scabbard, cut a silver arc through the air, and split Ryoma’s skull. Ryoma had drawn his weapon out of reflex. It slid from his numb fingers, but he kicked it aside from trying to retrieve it before tripping over his own feet. He cursed himself while watching from the floor on his stomach like a dog. Shinta drew his katana, but Jiro had moved his to his left hand.
The tip of Jiro’s sword flew through the air past Shinta’s guard that did not know how to compensate for a left hand strike, then between his ribs, and through his lung. Ryoma bellowed for the owners of the inn to come. He recognized that style – the style of former spymaster and third Captain of the Shinsengumi Hajime Saito. Saito turned his sword and the ribs cracked under the strain then snapped.
He pulled the sword out and slung the blood. Ryoma was morbidly reminded of a Sumi-e painter cleaning the excess ink from his brush. In this light Shinta’s blood looked like splatters of ink. Ryoma screamed again and scrambled for his gun, but he couldn’t find it. Saito sheathed his katana and walked out the same way he came.
“Somebody! Help! ” Ryoma screamed. “Shinta, we’re going to get you through this. We just got to hold out. If I could find my gun…shit, they’d hear that.”
“Ryoma…” Shinta wheezed. “Y-your face.”
Ryoma touched his face and looked down at his hand. It was filled with deep crimson and gray matter
“I’m not going to make it…they’ve killed me, but now it’s all so God damn meaningless.”
****
Karma is a hell of a thing.
The Tokugawa government has been trying to kill him ever since he mediated the meeting that brought the Choschu and Satsuma clans together. The Bakufu with their swords and bamboo armor would be no match for the Ishin Shishi ’s Winchesters and Howitzers, but it would never come to that. Ryoma had already made sure that Japan will not be torn apart by Civil War. Words had changed the world – not bloodshed. Not even his death would stop the words put into motion. While war within Japan came much later it was never on the scale that it could have been.
The Tokugawa Shogunate sent twenty men to arrest him the very night after the meeting, and he still managed to get away. He stayed in Kyoto to celebrate his great victory. Sonno-joi was changing – it was becoming more than just Ronin randomly killing officials or destroying Tokugawa property. Between Choschu and Satsuma a modern, industrial army and navy would rise with the capabilities of obliterating the antiquated and lethargic samurai like the Western militaries could.
He and his bodyguard Miyoshi stayed the night in the Terada Inn’s Plum Room. The Terada Inn was a favorite amongst young samurai, and Ryoma found one of the waitresses quite fetching. They had been drinking earlier, because the Japanese seal deals like Norse
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