And just like that, a night had passed since Sentarō, Tadatoshi, and Reiko had been arrested. The weight of their predicament clung to them like iron chains, each heartbeat a reminder of the uncertainty that awaited. Even in the dim light of dawn, the memory of yesterday's events rang so loudly in their minds that none could find sleep. The silence of the cell was suffocating, broken only by the soft groans of the worn wooden floor and the creaking of the bars.
"Huh? Morning already?" Tadatoshi muttered, squinting at the weak light that seeped through the gaps in the cell's wooden walls. He stretched, rubbing his arms with impatience, but Sentarō remained silent. His gaze, distant and unseeing, lingered somewhere beyond the cold walls of their prison. Reiko's eyes followed him carefully. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight quiver in his jaw—it betrayed the shock he was still trying to swallow.
"Sentarō… are you—" she began tentatively, her voice quiet, almost a whisper.
"I'm fine," he cut her off, voice clipped and sharp. But Reiko could see past the words. The hollow weight in his eyes, the faint downward curve of his lips—it all spoke of a truth he couldn't voice. He was far from fine.
Tadatoshi's impatience flared, his frown deepening as he caught sight of Sentarō's state. "Huh? What's tha—"
Before he could finish, a voice like rolling thunder cut across the room.
"Alright! You three, get up!"
The words shattered the fragile stillness of the cell. A samurai stood before the barred door, massive and formidable, his face lined with scars and years of battle. Every muscle in his body tensed like coiled steel, radiating the kind of authority that allowed no dissent.
"What? Where are we going?" Reiko asked, confusion tightening her chest.
"To the captain. To determine your fate," the samurai replied with calm precision. Without hesitation, he untied their bonds from the wall, only to bind them together once more with a single rope, looping it around their arms and shoulders so that escape was impossible. The rough fibers bit into their skin, a tangible reminder of their powerless position.
"Now follow me."
The walk to the captain's office was heavy with silence. Every step echoed against the wooden floor, carrying the weight of inevitability. They passed through long corridors, the walls polished by countless footsteps of officers, yet nothing felt familiar. Shadows flickered as the early sun crept through narrow windows, painting strange shapes along the walls—shapes that seemed to watch their every move. Each heartbeat felt amplified, each breath heavier, as though the air itself bore down with judgment.
Finally, they reached the captain's office. Inside, the scene was more intimidating than they had imagined. The captain of the Fourth Division sat at the center of the room, an imposing figure radiating authority. Beside him, to his right, stood Ukon, his face like carved stone, expressionless yet filled with quiet menace. To the captain's left was Tōkichirō, standing rigid, his gaze steady yet careful, betraying a tension that did not go unnoticed.
Sentarō's chest tightened as his eyes fell upon Tōkichirō. A spark of hope flickered faintly in his chest.
"Tōkichirō? I'm so glad you're here," he said, his voice tinged with desperation. "You've heard the situation, right? You understand, don't you? Please… explain it to them."
"Sentarō, calm down," Tadatoshi interjected, trying to rein in the tension, though the edges of his voice betrayed his unease.
"Don't you get it, Tadatoshi?" Sentarō pressed, ignoring his companion. "Tōkichirō can help—"
"That is enough from you!" Ueda's voice thundered across the room, cutting through the fragile hope like a blade. Sentarō's gaze darted to Tōkichirō, seeking reassurance, only to find none. The young samurai's eyes shifted away, a brief, calculated avoidance that spoke volumes. He had abandoned them, at least in this moment. The sight struck Sentarō like a physical blow, and Reiko felt a chill travel down her spine.
Even more unsettling was the brief, almost imperceptible glance Ueda cast at Tōkichirō—an acknowledgment that left Reiko uneasy. Authority and power flowed in that single look, and it was clear: no one would interfere, not even him.
"Now, without wasting any more time, your fate will be decided," Ukon said, his voice cutting and final.
Haaaah… Ueda sighed, his posture exuding a patience born of centuries of practice in command and control. "You three have caused more trouble than I could have anticipated," he said, voice calm but firm, the faintest trace of frustration flickering across his features.
Tadatoshi, ever brash, spat out, "What exactly do you mean by that, old man?"
"Silence!" Ukon snapped, stepping forward. His expression was laced with disgust. "You will not talk back. You are lowly Ashigaru. Know your place!"
"Enough of that," Ueda said, his voice taking on a steely edge. "You were given strict instructions not to engage a specific set of criminals. Not only did you disobey those orders, but you escalated the situation by attacking their entire base. You—" He paused, letting the weight of his words hang like a blade over their heads, "you have challenged the authority of the Fourth Division."
Sentarō's jaw tightened. "Huh? Are you seriously saying we should have obeyed an order not to help someone in need?"
"Yes," Ueda said, crisp and unwavering. "Even if the person is on the verge of death. Even if the life of someone you care for hangs by a thread—you obey. Blindly. Without question."
Reiko's eyes darted to Tōkichirō. The young samurai's hands trembled ever so slightly, the subtleest shiver that spoke of fear and hesitation. Reiko's mind raced. The concept of justice, once a guiding principle, now twisted under Ueda's words. Obedience had become the law, and morality was secondary.
"That isn't justice," Reiko whispered under her breath. "That's blind obedience masquerading as right."
"A fitting definition of justice, would you not agree?" Ueda's words rolled over them, heavy with conviction. Sentarō froze. This was no tyrant in the usual sense—there was no cruelty in the words themselves. There was certainty. A certainty that convinced, that commanded, that demanded compliance.
"I was appointed captain," Ueda continued, his gaze sweeping over them like a hawk, "because I alone can distinguish right from wrong. By that measure, what I declare right is right, and what I declare wrong is wrong. All else is subordinate."
Sentarō felt a chill in his spine. This was not evil in the ordinary sense. This was a mind so certain of its own righteousness that defiance became the ultimate sin. And yet… he could not bring himself to sense outright malice. There was only belief. Absolute, unyielding, and terrifying belief.
A thought stirred in Sentarō's mind, a memory from Tōkichirō's earlier words. "He believed that only those truly unhinged could kill mercilessly for what they believed was right, especially in an era where right and wrong are blurred."
"Was this what Tōkichirō meant? That the captain truly believed in the righteousness of his actions?" Sentarō's eyes narrowed. The stakes were higher than he had imagined.
Ukon stepped forward, handing a folded paper to Ueda. With a calm motion, Ueda scanned it briefly before turning his steely gaze back to the three bound Ashigaru.
"Sentarō Hachibei, Hosokawa Tadatoshi, Reiko Kobayashi," Ueda began, his words deliberate, weighted, and final, "for your actions against the Fourth Division, for disobeying direct orders, your punishment is death—by beheading."
Time seemed to freeze. The room's walls closed in. Their breaths caught, hearts thundering painfully against their ribs.
"WHAT?!" Tadatoshi shouted, thrashing against the ropes in vain. "What was our crime, you old bag?! Huh?!"
"Your crime?" Ueda said, almost mockingly. "It's simple. You defied my orders."
Tadatoshi's face twisted with fury. "Are you just going to sit there quietly, you orange-haired bastard?!"
Sentarō's hands clenched, nails biting into the rope. His jaw tightened, a silent fire burning behind his eyes. He refused to break eye contact, even as the noose of authority tightened around them.
"The little girl was right," Tadatoshi muttered suddenly, his words cutting through the oppressive tension. And at that moment, Tōkichirō's gaze met theirs—not with anger, not with defiance, but with something heavier:
REGRET