Aoto's Detective Record
Volume 1 – Preface
He bore many titles over his lifetime—"Niō" (King of Benevolence), "Shogunate's Supreme Sword," "Pillar of the Nation," "Friend of France."
But long before he earned such glory, he had been nothing more than a nameless, lowly official, scornfully called "Dumb Aoto."
—From the Preface of Aoto's Detective Record, Volume One
---
Ansei 7 (1860 AD), January 12th, night —
Edo, Kitamachi Bugyōsho (北町奉行所)
"When we rush in later, those who surrender will not be killed. Those who resist will be executed on the spot. That's all."
The deep male voice echoed through the dimly lit chamber, firm and resolute.
Aoto blinked, startled, turning toward its source.
The speaker was a young man, likely no older than twenty-seven. His face was sharp yet righteous, eyebrows thick and shadowed over determined eyes. The man's kimono was neat beneath a straw jingasa, the sleeves of his garment bound tightly with a cord at the wrist. Two swords—one long, one short—hung neatly at his left hip, gleaming faintly in candlelight.
Aoto gazed at him blankly, confusion thick in his mind.
—Where… am I?
He looked around, trying to make sense of his surroundings.
The room was spacious, lined with tatami mats, and bright despite the late hour; candles flickered atop iron holders, casting warm orange light across wooden beams and drawn shoji screens.
When he glanced down, his confusion deepened. He was seated on a small stool, clothed in a burgundy haori, its sleeves tied together with a slender ribbon. Two swords were thrust into his belt at his left hip, and on the right hung a short, iron rod with a hooked tip.
The word surfaced in his mind like an echo—jitte.
A jitte… a weapon of Edo officers, forged for defense and arrest, not killing. A tool of authority—like a baton, yet far heavier.
He reached for his chest and found the cold links of kusari-katabira, chainmail worn beneath his kimono. The weight pressed against his ribs.
—What… what is happening to me?
His breathing quickened. He turned his head.
To his left and right sat two men dressed just like him—swords at their sides, jitte on their belts. One was average-looking, his half-closed eyes giving him a sleepy expression. The other was strikingly handsome, his sharp gaze staring into the distance in silent thought.
In front of them stood roughly twenty men, each armed, their faces grim. None were seated.
The air was thick, tense with anticipation.
Aoto's thoughts spiraled. His pulse thudded in his ears.
Then realization struck him like lightning.
—Am I… in ancient Japan?
His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.
"Tachibana-kun, what's wrong? You look as if you've seen a ghost."
The voice was calm yet teasing.
Tachibana-kun? The name sounded strange—familiar and unfamiliar all at once.
He turned instinctively toward the speaker—the same man with the upright bearing who had given the earlier order.
A name flickered in Aoto's mind like a spark in the dark.
Arima Hideyuki.
Arima Hideyuki, Yoriki (与力) of the Kitamachi Bugyōsho, his direct superior.
"We're about to storm the Jingi-shū's lair," Arima said, his tone solemn. "Keep your focus."
He spoke fluent Japanese. Yet somehow, though Aoto had never studied the language in his previous life, every word was crystal clear.
"Ah— sorry," Aoto murmured, bowing his head slightly. "Didn't mean to make a scene."
The words came out perfectly fluent.
Arima gave him a brief, puzzled glance, then folded his arms and closed his eyes to rest.
Aoto sat motionless. His pulse was racing.
He forced a long breath, then another. Slowly, the haze in his mind began to thin—only to be replaced by sudden flashes of memory.
Names. Faces. Streets. Commands.
He remembered being eighteen. Remembered being born to a man who had once served the Bugyōsho as a Dōshin.
His mother had died years ago; his father had followed her six months prior, leaving behind his uniform, his jitte, and his duty.
And now, Aoto had taken his father's place.
The Kitamachi Bugyōsho—Edo's northern magistrate's office—was one of the Shogunate's two great seats of civil order.
The Bugyō oversaw it all: crime, law, judgment, and city affairs. Beneath him were the Yoriki, middle-ranking samurai who commanded investigations, and below them the Dōshin, low-ranking officers—the backbone of the city's peace.
And tonight, they were preparing to strike down one of Edo's most infamous gangs:
the Jingi-shū (仁義衆), or Clan of Righteousness.
Their name promised virtue, but their acts were anything but righteous—murder, arson, extortion, and worse.
For months, the Bugyōsho had hunted them. Now, finally, the den of these self-styled patriots had been found.
Aoto's heart pounded harder.
The fragments of memory felt alien and yet somehow his own.
Just then, the sliding door rattled open.
A heavyset man entered, his robes grander than anyone else's, followed by attendants. The officers rose to their feet immediately.
Arima straightened, bowing deeply.
"Lord Bugyō!"
The others followed his example, including Aoto.
The man before them was Usui Tadajirō, Kitamachi Bugyō—the magistrate of Edo's northern district, a man of immense authority and an unyielding will.
"Enough formalities," Usui said, raising a hand. His voice was steady and commanding. "Tonight, I entrust this operation to you all. Our informants report that the Jingi-shū remain gathered at their hideout. Do not falter."
He paused, letting his gaze sweep the room.
"The peace of Edo depends on your steel tonight."
After his short speech, he motioned to a servant, who stepped forward with a tray.
On it rested bonito flakes, dried squid, kelp knots, and a bottle of sake—a ceremonial offering.
By tradition, before a major arrest, the Bugyō would personally hand sake and preserved food to the officer leading the operation—a gesture meant to strengthen courage and unity.
Usui handed the sake to Arima.
"Drink," he said. "And bring me victory."
Arima bowed and drained it in one gulp.
"Well said, Arima-kun," Usui laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.
"We'll risk our lives for justice!" Arima answered loudly, then returned the flask.
With that, he turned toward his men.
"It's time! Follow me!"
He gripped the hilt of his sword and strode for the door.
The room erupted into motion. Dozens of footsteps thundered as the officers followed him out into the freezing night.
Still uncertain, Aoto rose with them, clutching his jitte, and joined the group.
Outside, Edo slept under a half-hidden moon. Lanterns burned faintly along the streets as their shadows darted between alleyways. The night air was sharp, carrying the faint scent of sea and smoke.
They ran for nearly twenty minutes before reaching their destination: a modest house in the western outskirts.
To anyone else, it was ordinary—worn sliding doors, a thatched roof, a small garden fence. But the Bugyōsho's intelligence said otherwise. Inside were the Jingi-shū's core members, meeting in secret.
Arima raised his hand. The line of officers halted.
"Remember your orders," he said quietly. "Capture if you can. Kill if you must."
Then, with one swift kick, he broke the door open.
"We are officers of the Edo Kitamachi Bugyōsho! Submit to lawful search!"
The words had barely left his mouth when chaos exploded inside.
Men leapt to their feet, weapons drawn. The clash of blades and the roar of voices filled the room. Candles toppled, shadows danced wildly across blood-streaked walls.
Aoto followed the surge inside. His heart hammered as steel met steel.
A bald man swung his sword wildly, trying to flee through the crowd. For an instant he slipped past the line—but one of the officers' blades struck him down from behind.
Aoto froze. The sight jolted him. His breath caught.
Around him, his comrades fought ferociously, chasing the gang through the cramped hall.
Then movement flashed to his left.
A man lunged at him from the darkness—a middle-aged thug, his eyes burning with fury, sword raised high.
The target was him.
Instinct surged. Aoto's hand went to his short sword; the steel whispered free of its sheath.
The first strike came fast. Aoto sidestepped, the blade grazing his sleeve. The man turned, slashing again.
Sparks burst as their swords met. The clang resounded through the narrow space.
The older man's strength drove Aoto back step by step. Each blow jarred his arms, each clash sent pain through his palms.
Gritting his teeth, Aoto twisted his body—and drove his knee forward.
It connected solidly with the man's stomach. The air whooshed from the thug's lungs.
He folded, groaning, his grip loosening on the hilt.
Without thinking, Aoto struck the side of the man's neck with the pommel of his sword.
"Ugh…"
A dull, heavy thud.
The man's eyes rolled back; his sword dropped from his grasp. He collapsed onto the tatami, motionless but alive, chest faintly rising and falling.
For a moment, Aoto stood still, panting, unable to believe what he'd done. The weight of the jitte in his other hand felt strangely reassuring—solid, real.
He had survived.
Then, just as he exhaled, a sound like no other echoed through his head—mechanical, cold, impossible.
> [Ding! Talent detected.]
[Successfully copied talent: "Night Vision."]
[Talent description: Clear vision even in complete darkness.]