The Turntables

“What the hell..? This..” He lifted a musket up, the polished wood shockingly clean compared to the grime of the room. “This is the Tanegashima…” His eyes widened in horrified realization.

“Don’t tell me.. Kurogane.. The newer Executive.. is—”

“Oiiii Ichirō-dono! How long will you be in there?!” Kenichi’s voice echoed from the hallway, strained and impatient.

“Tch— I’m coming!” Ichirō shouted back, though his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. “Dang it, what the hell.. I.. I don’t believe it.” He muttered to himself, looking at the row of barrels in the crate. Each one was a promise of a hole through a breastplate that no amount of training could parry. “Did I.. misunderstand the intentions of this entire organization?”

Was this mafia just a front for something much larger? A revolution of lead and gunpowder?

Ichirō cradled the musket, his fingers tracing the serpentine lock as he slowly walked out of the dim office. The transition from the cluttered room to the open, oppressive gloom of the prison hallway felt like stepping into a funeral. The prisoners watched him through the bars with hollow eyes, their skeletal hands still twitching in the dark.

Ichirō closed his eyes for a moment, trying to find his center, “Tch. Well ye guys, I did find the key but—”

“But.. You found my gun.”

The voice didn't come from his friends. It came from the shadow in front of him.

Ichirō’s eyes snapped open. The world blurred.

Schwing!

His katana was out in a flash of silver, the tip vibrating with the force of his draw against his opponent.

“Tch. WHO THE HELL ARE YE?!” Ichirō shouted, his voice booming in the narrow corridor.

Standing three feet away was a man who seemed to have been birthed from the very soot on the walls. He was dressed in high-collared, dark garments that looked more like a uniform than traditional robes. His face was sharp, eyes hooded with a terrifying, calm intelligence.

“Like I said,” the man responded, his voice a low, melodic threat. “The one whose gun you’re holding.”

“Wha— What about Ke—” Ichirō’s voice died in his throat. His eyes darted behind the stranger.

Kenichi and Tsuyoshi were no longer standing. They were on their bellies, forced down into the filth of the floor. Two bandits, their faces obscured by grimy headbands, stood over them. The cold steel of wakizashis was pressed firmly against the backs of their necks. One wrong move, one twitch of Ichirō’s finger on a trigger he didn't know how to pull, and their heads would roll into the gutter.

“KENICHI-DONO!! TSUYOSHI-DONO!!” Ichirō screamed, his grip on his own sword tightening until his knuckles turned white.

“We’re sorry Ichirō-dono,” Tsuyoshi grunted, his face pressed near a puddle of stagnant water. He spat out a mouthful of grit. “We were caught off guard from the cries of the prisoners.. You can tell these people do kidnapping with the silent sneak-ups. They move like ghosts in this rot.”

“Damn it all...” Ichirō’s breath came in ragged bursts. His eyes locked onto the leader. “ARE YE KUROGANE?!”

“I am. And you happen to be Saitou Ichirō, from what I presume,” Kurogane responded. His tone was cunning, almost playful, as if he were watching a child try to solve a puzzle.

“Yer presumption isn’t far off, Kurogane. However, I must inform ye that in a duel of swords... ye’re picking the worst matchup for yerself.” Ichirō bared his teeth, a feral grin of desperation.

“I’m well aware of that as well, Ichirō-san, believe me,” Kurogane said, taking a slow step forward. “However, this isn’t a duel of swords here. Look around you.”

“Ngh?!”

“Your two comrades are currently on the floor, awaiting death by my command. One word from me, and the steel bites through the bone. It’s a very messy way to go.” Kurogane’s eyes never left Ichirō’s. “Meanwhile, you’re stuck here parrying my sword while you hold a weapon you don't even know how to prime. The odds are very much against you. Fight me, and you might win—you’re the legendary Saitou Ichirō, after all—but there’s no guarantee for your comrades to live. In fact, I can guarantee they won't.”

Ichirō’s head bowed, the shadow of his bangs obscuring his eyes. The rage was a physical heat in his chest, a burning desire to lung forward and paint the walls with Kurogane's blood.

“Don’t fight me,” Kurogane continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, “and we’ll be here in a stalemate. A long, agonizing wait until the rest of my comrades arrive to finish what we started. You’re at a disadvantage, Ichirō. Time is a luxury you’ve already spent.”

Ichirō’s eyebrows furrowed, his jaw set so tight it felt like it might crack.

“So.. which one will you be choosing?”

“What about.. Saru, Shida, and Toshio?” Ichirō asked, his voice a low grunt of pain.

“Hmmm..” Kurogane sarcastically pondered, “Take a wild guess, Saitou Ichirō.”

“Tch.. Ye bastard..”

“Anyhow, make a decision before it’s too late. The blood in this hallway is already cold. Don't add fresh warmth to it.”

“ICHIRŌ-DONO!! LEAVE US BE!” Tsuyoshi’s voice erupted from the floor, raw and defiant. “WE ARE WARRIORS! IT WILL BE EMBARRASSING THAT WE CAME HERE KNOWING WE COULD DIE AND YET WE COME OUT OF THIS PLACE ALIVE IN THIS WAY! END HIM!”

“THAT’S RIGHT!” Kenichi shouted, his voice cracking with the strain of the blade against his throat. “EVERY FIGHT IS HUGGING DEATH FOR US! IT DOESN’T MATTER IF WE DIE!!”

Ichirō stood there, surrounded by the living dead in their prison cells and his dying brothers on the floor. He closed his eyes. The world went silent. He could hear the drip of sweat, the labored breathing of the prisoners, and the heavy thrum of his own heart.

Ten seconds go by. The air feels like lead. Fifteen seconds go by.

On the nineteenth second, Ichirō made his decision.

He lowered his sword. The tip clattered against the stone floor. He let his arms hang limp, leaving his chest, his throat, his very life completely defenseless.

“W-What..” Kenichi’s voice was a shocked whisper. “H-Hey.. Ichirō-dono.. WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOI—”

“SHUT UP!!” Ichirō roared, his voice silencing the entire floor. Even the prisoners stopped their whimpering.

Kurogane’s eyebrows shot up. He paused, his cunning facade flickering for a fraction of a second. “A wise decision, if I must say so myself.”

“If ye’re truly of justice, Kurogane,” Ichirō challenged, his eyes boring into the Executive’s, “then ye shall strike down the one who stands morally wrong in this hallway.”

Kurogane was caught by surprise. He took one step back, then another. His eyes darted to the musket in Ichirō’s hand, then back to the man’s face. He let out a sharp, guttural grunt.

“Hah...” Kurogane broke. The serious, cold bubble he had projected vanished, replaced by a sudden, jarring laugh that echoed off the damp stone. “Hahahaha! Looks like you deduced me by just that gun, huh?”

“Well then,” Kurogane uttered, his movements becoming a blur of efficiency. He stepped forward and snatched the musket from Ichirō’s unresisting arms.

“NO NO— ICHIRO—!” Kenichi screamed, certain that the next sound would be the blast that ended his leader's life.

Kurogane spun on his heel.

BANG! BANG!

The hallway erupted in fire and smoke. The sound was deafening, a physical blow that shook the very foundations of the prison. Acrid gray smoke filled the air, stinging the eyes.

“H...H..Huh..?” “W-What just..”

The two bandits who had been holding Kenichi and Tsuyoshi didn't even have time to scream. The heavy lead balls had torn through their chests, staggering them backward. They collapsed into the filth, their lifeblood pooling and mixing with the stagnant water of the prison floor. Their bodies twitched once, then went still.

Kurogane stood with the smoking musket, the barrel still glowing faintly in the dim light. He faced away from them, his silhouette framed by the fading sparks of the gunpowder.

“I must say, Ichirō.. A lot of faith you entrusted in that decision,” Kurogane muttered, his voice sounding hollow in the wake of the gunfire.

“Hah,” Ichirō exhaled, a long, shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. “I figured if ye have them enclosed in a manner like this—clean, oiled, hidden in a place of such squalor—then that means ye're someone from.. 

Arabesque Travaux.”

“Arabesque..?” Tsuyoshi mumbled.

“Travaux..? Oi Ichirō-dono, what the hell is going on?!” Kenichi scrambled to his feet, rubbing his neck where the blade had been. Tsuyoshi stood beside him, his eyes wide with a mix of relief and fury.

“Ye guys.. Arabesque Travaux is an assassin’s group,” Ichirō explained, his voice returning to its usual energetic clip. “They’re known for importing guns to Japan, usually for the sake of taking down the most corrupt heads of state.”

“But Ichirō-dono,” Tsuyoshi interjected, shaking his head, “we’ve been importing guns through the Dutch for three centuries now. How come you’re so sure he’s one of them?”

“Oh, that was just a wild guess,” Ichirō said, rubbing the back of his head and grinning like an idiot. “If he happened to be someone with guns randomly who just liked killing people.. I’d be dead by now, hehe.”

“WHAAAATTTTT?!!” “Y-YOU BET YOUR LIFE THAT STUPIDLY?! NOT JUST YOU, WE WERE ALL IN TROUBLE, YOU BASTARD!” Kenichi lunged at Ichirō, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him.

“Hahaha, sorry ye guys! But hey, it turned out well, right?”

“LIKE HELL IT DID!! MY WIFE WAS ALMOST ABOUT TO BECOME A WIDOW!” Kenichi shouted, his face turning a bright shade of red.

“Hey, hey.. What motivated me for that risk is ye guys saying ye’re ready to die anyway, as proper samurais would,” Ichirō replied, prying Kenichi’s hands off him.

“IT WAS A CONFIDENCE SHOUT TO OUR OWNSELVES AT THE FACE OF DEATH, DAMMIT!” Kenichi roared.

“Hahahah! Ye guys are real funny, y'know!” Ichirō laughed, the tension finally breaking into a genuine, if slightly manic, moment of levity.

“YOU—!” Tsuyoshi was about to join the shouting match before Ichirō’s expression suddenly shifted. It became quiet, profound.

“But you guys,” Ichirō settled down, his voice soft. “If at the face of death ye can discard your own life, saying it’s the warrior’s way anyway... that means that’s you at your very essence. That pride is real.”

“What do you mean, Ichirō-dono?” Tsuyoshi asked, settling down.

“It’s easy to be confident and big-mouthed in yer everyday life, boasting about yer pride and abilities and saying ye're ready to face death anytime,” Ichirō elaborated, looking at the dead bandits. 

“But when faced with the actual cold steel of the grave, most go back on their words. They beg. They plead. They reveal they never truly lived up to the weight of the sword they carry. In essence.. they were always cowardly. But ye two... ye were ready. I couldn't let men with that much heart die like dogs on a prison floor.”

Kenichi and Tsuyoshi shared a look, the anger fading into a solemn, respectful silence.

"I suppose so."

"Thank you, Ichirō-dono."

“Anyway.. What’s this guy’s deal?” Tsuyoshi looked at Kurogane. The assassin looked annoyed, leaning against a cell bar and checking the flint on the musket as if the three samurais were a group of bickering children he was being paid to babysit.

“I’ll let you explain it, Kurogane-dono.” Ichirō walked over and patted Kurogane on the back with a heavy, grinning hand.

Kurogane flinched at the touch but didn't move. “Arabesque Travaux is an assassin’s group,” he began, his voice professional and cold. “We take down yakuza bosses and corrupt daimyo across the country with infiltrations much like the one you are performing. We specialize in assassinating them at high-profile events to cause public uproar, breaking the illusion of their invincibility. Sometimes, we send rookies into their business to work for months, gathering information on supply lines and guard rotations before we strike.”

“So... which one are you doing?” Kenichi asked, crossing his arms.

“The first and the last. Except I’m not a rookie.”

“Huh? Then how come you're here?”

“I’m the Second-in-Command Chief of the association,” Kurogane stated. “I came to this organization to take down Hades, the Oyabun himself, while gathering proof of his international smuggling rings.”

“S-S-Second-in-Command?!” Kenichi stuttered.

“That’s a crazy rank for a mole,” Tsuyoshi muttered.

“Woah.” Ichirō gasped, genuinely impressed.

“Well, how come your group didn't send rookies this time? Why send someone as important as the Chief?” Kenichi asked.

Kurogane’s gaze flickered. A darkness settled over his features, his jaw tightening as he stared into the middle distance.

“Truth is..”

Flashback: Chapter 17 - The Crepuscule Lethe - 3.

“Let’s move,” he ordered. “We leave for Takayama immediately. Weather’s on our side.”

The older bandit added, “And we finally meet the boss today.”

“Oh, right!” the younger bandit said. “Kind of unsettling, isn’t it? For a man who controls every operation… we know nothing about him.”

He nudged Kurogane. “But you know him, don’t you?”

Kurogane didn’t turn.

“I don’t. The boss trusts no one with his identity.”

“Then how come you’re co-leader? (Executive) That means something, doesn’t it?”

Kurogane’s face darkened—shadow swallowing his eyes, grin shifting unnaturally.

“He hires strength. Nothing else. Even if that strength means…”

He let the sentence trail off like a blade dragged across stone.

"Even if that strength means hiring me."

The Present

“Truth is.. Hades knows exactly who I am,” Kurogane said, his voice dropping an octave.

“Ngh?!” 
“What?!”

“Woah,” Ichirō gasped, again.

“He knows I’m here to plot something against him. He just doesn’t know the specifics of the when or the how.”

“Then why the hell would he hire you?! And then give you the rank and duties of the Three Executives?!” Kenichi asked, his brow furrowed in utter confusion. “That’s suicide for a leader!”

“That bastard.. He hired me knowingly. He ranked me all the way up to keep me as close as a heartbeat because he’s so full of himself,” Kurogane spat the words out. “He believes I won’t be able to do anything to him. He’s challenging me. By bringing me into the inner circle, he’s showing me the scale of his power every day, daring me to try and cut his throat. It’s a game to him.”

“Tch..”

“And the worst part is.. it’s working. It’s a psychological cage. Having me so unexpectedly entrusted with the duties of his massive organization, knowing I’m here to burn it down.. I don’t know how, but it just feels like he’s making me feel.. powerless. Like I'm just another cog in his machine, even when I'm trying to break it.”

The three stare in ponder for a good few seconds.

“I see!” Ichirō hit his palm with his fist. “Well then, you haven't answered one thing, Kurogane-san.”

“Ah, Saru, Shida, and Toshio are all okay. They are actually completely unaware of me and the two bandits I brought. I ensured they were occupied with their own 'honorable' duels.” Kurogane answered, a hint of mockery returning.

“Oh, that much I figured.. But from what I know.. You are the one who kidnapped Seiko Tenmichi, aren't you?” Ichirō’s eyes turned cold.

Kurogane didn't flinch. “You are.. correct.”

“Well then.. where is she?” Ichirō asked, the playful energy of the previous moment completely gone.

“She’s upstairs, in one of the hidden rooms of the store you guys originally entered through. She’s safe.”

“Geez, I hope she didn't scream from the mess we left up there after killing the manager guy,” Ichirō laughed, though it sounded forced.

“She didn't.. She’s currently sleeping on the lap of another woman Hades specifically requested to see. A ‘guest’ of the organization.”

“Another.. woman?” Ichirō’s entire demeanor dropped. His shoulders slumped, and a strange, heavy silence settled over him.

“Yeah..?” Kurogane looked at him, confused by the sudden shift.

“Hm.” Ichirō didn't add anything more. He stared at the floor, his eyes hollow.

“What’s wrong, Ichirō-dono?” Kenichi asked, stepping forward.

Tsuyoshi watched him closely, his mind working fast, "His demeanor.. it dropped as if he knows exactly who Kurogane is talking about."

“Anyhow..” Ichirō suddenly looked up, his face a mask of forced cheer. He clapped his hands together. “You haven't told the guys the biggest secret yet, Kurogane!”

“Huh?”
"Biggest secret?”

Ichirō opened his arms wide, his voice booming with a revelation that felt like a lightning strike.

“You guys.. Arabesque Travaux isn't just some random group of assassins. They are Kisakago Keisakai’s group of assassins!”

The hallway went deathly silent.

“Kisakago..”
“Keisakai..?”

Kenichi’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. 

“TENMICHI’S FATHER?????!!!!!!”