The news came in the morning, while it was still dark. I ran to Masahide's residence, nearly tumbling as I went. I was supposed to be afraid of people, but that morning alone, I didn't notice the crowds, or the darkness behind me, or anything at all. I just prayed, over and over: let me make it in time.
I didn't make it in time.
Masahide was already gone. He'd cut open his own belly, with his own hand. To remonstrate with me.
A letter had been left by his pillow. With trembling hands, I opened it. In an old man's handwriting, yet every character written with all his strength, it said:
My lord. This is your old retainer's final request. I beg you, cast off the name of fool. That you should become a head of house surpassing our late lord—that alone has been Masahide's wish these many years. Even at the cost of this old life, I would open your eyes.
I couldn't move, the letter clenched in my hand.
Ah. Ah, old man. Is that why you died?
Because I kept playing the fool. Because I didn't tell even you the truth. Because I was afraid to confide in you, afraid you'd give up on me, and just kept pushing you away. Leave me.
You used up your one and only life to open my eyes? For someone like me?
I knew, you see. That the fool act was just an act. A performance, with reasons behind it. So somewhere in my heart, I'd been complacent. Even if everyone was fooled, that was all part of my plan.
And yet.
There was someone who'd truly worried about that fool. Someone who'd truly grieved over what would become of that fool. Someone who'd truly staked his life for that fool.
Masahide hadn't simply been fooled. Believing I was a fool, and still—no, precisely because he believed I was a fool, this old man had poured his whole heart into caring for me.
That's what I should regret. Even to that one person who truly cared for me, I couldn't tell the truth, right to the end.
The "fool" mask I'd worn so lightly had driven this kind old man to his death.
I had never cut anyone down yet. Never taken anyone's life with a blade.
And yet, right now, I had without a doubt killed a human being.
Not with a sword. With my cowardice. With my self-preservation. With the fact that I hadn't had the courage to tell the truth.
"Someone died because of me."
For the first time in my life, I knew the weight of that. It was heavier, colder, and—more painful than any fear I had ever imagined.
I took Masahide's hand, its warmth already gone.
On the day of the funeral, only Kicho's hand hadn't been a blade. Now, this hand was no longer a blade either. It would never harm me, ever. Because I had killed him.
"...Old man."
My voice shook.
"Old man. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I... I should have told you, you of all people. That I'm not a fool. That I was just scared. I should have trusted you. But I—"
The words wouldn't go on.
And then I—not caring who saw. Throwing away everything, my pride as head of the house, the mask of the fool, all of it.
I cried out loud.
Like a child. Wailing, bawling, sobbing and hiccuping, shamelessly.
The greatest coward of the warring age broke down and wept, utterly beside himself, over the death of a single old retainer.
That was my first real loss in this life.