After a bit of gentle conversation over steaming bowls of rice, Gyomei began to piece together the shape of the family's life. Mr. Takoyoru, he learned, was away on a merchant ship, sailing between distant lands to sell goods and bring prosperity to his kin. It was dangerous work—pirates roamed the waters, ruthless and opportunistic—but the rewards were considerable.
"It is because of him that we are able to live so comfortably," Takoyoru-san said with a smile that radiated both pride and love. The fondness in her voice painted a vivid portrait of a husband who had risked everything for his family.
Gyomei finished his fifth bowl of rice and paused, touched by the warmth he had been shown. The generosity of strangers still felt foreign, almost unreal.
"Takoyoru-san, are you truly alright with offering so much rice to a traveler like me?" he asked respectfully.
She laughed softly, the sound like the rustling of leaves.
"Of course! We're the only village on this island, and our family is well-regarded here. Besides," she added with a teasing grin, "if you try to stiff me, I doubt you'd survive long."
Though her tone was light, Gyomei understood the underlying truth. He could survive alone—of that, there was no doubt. But his honor, rooted in his Buddhist vows, would never allow him to leave a debt unpaid.
Soon after, she clapped her hands.
"Alright, off to bed with you, Sakime! And Himejima-kun, I assume you're tired. We have no spare beds, I'm afraid, so you'll have to make do with the floor."
"Good night!" Gyomei called as Sakime skipped upstairs.
Moments later, her voice echoed faintly.
"Good night!"
The simple farewell filled him with quiet joy. As he lay down on the floor—remarkably smooth and surprisingly comfortable—he allowed himself to smile.
"No!"
He awoke with a start, drenched in sweat. The echo of his own scream hung in the air like smoke.
Another nightmare. Another vision of death.
The children... their tiny faces twisted in agony. Taro's head, shattered like overripe fruit. Haku's arm, devoured in a single gulp. The skin torn from their bodies, piece by piece. And Momo—sweet, loving Momo—her eyes, once filled with admiration, rolling across the floor like discarded pearls.
His chest heaved.
"Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu..." The mantra came automatically, grounding him, soothing the raw ache in his soul.
"I will atone," he whispered. "In this life, I will make it right."
He rose silently and stepped outside, the floorboards cool beneath his bare feet. A mirror on the door caught his reflection.
His frame had filled out.
What once had been frail and malnourished was now subtly broader. His shoulders had regained their old width, his limbs the memory of power.
"Strange... how can I recover this quickly?" he murmured.
Brushing the thought aside, he retrieved a small axe from behind the house. The woods awaited.
Though the Takoyorus had accepted him kindly, Gyomei knew all too well that darkness could still thrive in paradise. Pirates, bandits, even those entrusted with power—evil took many forms.
He remembered the words of a strange man he once met. A poet, perhaps, or a mad philosopher:
"If everything's good and it's great, why do I sit and wait 'til it's gone?"
The words, odd as they were, had wisdom. Complacency bred vulnerability.
He had to be ready.
The woods were silent save for the crunch of underbrush and the soft rustle of wind. He raised the axe.
The first tree fell with a deep, reluctant groan. It crashed to the ground, sending a cloud of birds into the air. Most would fear drawing attention in such a place, but Gyomei had no such concern.
He was not a creature of shadows. He never had been.
He was a mountain.
Mountains do not sneak. They do not retreat.
They stand.
And when a mountain moves, you do not resist.
You flee.
Because anything in its path will be ground into dust.
But now... he was not a mountain. Not yet.
He was a sapling. A fragile sprout with bark too thin and roots too shallow.
There was no one who could take shelter behind him. Not yet.
But soon.
And as he worked—felling trees, stripping bark, cutting trunks—he trained.
He labored for fifteen hours, his body soaked in sweat, arms aching with the rhythm of effort.
At the end, he stood amidst his work, surrounded by timber.
His body had changed again.
Where once there was wiry frailty, now there were lithe muscles. Nothing grand, not yet, but far beyond the pace of normal human progress.
"This world... it permits growth unlike my old one," he said aloud, marveling at the transformation. "So be it. In a week, I will be strong enough to protect the entire island."
He began the trek back, dragging a trail of freshly felled trees behind him.
The house came into view.
A new voice was speaking within.
Someone had arrived during his absence. Someone he had not yet met.
The air carried a different rhythm now, a firmer presence.
Mr. Takoyoru had returned.
"It is time," Gyomei said softly, his voice steady as stone. "Time to pay my respects."
And so, the mountain approached the hearth once more.