“What do you think you’re doing?” O-Fuku cried.
“My apologies.”
One of the customers at the table continued in a voice utterly devoid of remorse.
“Your backside was simply too tempting. Watching you walk back and forth felt as though you were deliberately enticing me, so I couldn’t resist touching it. Forgive me, forgive me.”
The moment he finished, his companions burst into raucous laughter.
The insincerity of his apology and the jeering laughter of the men around him deepened the flush of humiliation and anger on O-Fuku’s face.
Ogata silently returned the daishō in his arms to his left hip.
Then he rose slowly and walked toward the table.
O-Fuku had been treated with outrageous disrespect.
As Nagareya’s guard—and as her friend—Ogata could not sit aside and ignore it.
“Honored guest,” he said in a low voice to the samurai who had harassed her, “what you did was deeply improper. Apologize to her.”
All four samurai at the table turned toward him.
“And who are you?” one demanded impatiently.
Before Ogata could answer, one of the man’s companions made a small sound of recognition.
“No wonder you seemed familiar the moment I saw you. I remember now. You’re Ogata Issei of the Sakakibara Dojo, aren’t you?”
Ogata raised an eyebrow.
“You know me?”
“Of course. We are disciples of the Ishikawa Dojo. Naturally, we recognize some of the better-known students from the Sakakibara school.”
The Ishikawa Dojo?
Ogata’s brows immediately drew together.
The coincidence was extraordinary.
He and Makino had discussed the Ishikawa Dojo earlier that very day, and now, on the same evening, four of its disciples sat before him.
It was so improbable that Ogata briefly wondered whether he might still be dreaming.
While he reflected upon the coincidence, the samurai who had recognized him raised his voice mockingly.
“I don’t know you because your swordsmanship is impressive.
I remember you because your hair is so bizarre.
“You call yourself a samurai, yet you refuse to shave a sakayaki and allow all that hair to hang over your forehead.
“Your taste is absolutely disgusting!”
He deliberately emphasized the final words loudly enough for everyone in Nagareya to hear.
His companions immediately joined him in boisterous ridicule.
Ogata did not become angry.
Their mockery failed to touch him because, from the perspective of a man raised in the modern world, the hairstyles they wore with such pride looked far more ridiculous than his own. This chapter is updated first at NovelPing.
He merely pitied them.
They wore such hideous sakayaki themselves, yet still possessed the confidence to condemn the appearance of a man who had not shaved his crown.
Ogata understood that Edo-period samurai generally shared their sense of beauty.
Even so, he could not help feeling sorry for them.
He remained calm, but O-Fuku did not.
“Stop laughing!” she cried.
“Even without shaving a sakayaki, Ogata-sama is far more handsome than any of you!”
Her declaration immediately drew four vicious glares.
Confronted by their hostility, O-Fuku instinctively retreated half a step.
The moment Ogata noticed them glaring at her, he stepped sideways and placed himself between O-Fuku and the table.
“Apologize to the young lady behind me,” he repeated.
“I’ve heard that this izakaya recently acquired a very capable watchdog.” The samurai who had touched O-Fuku gave Ogata a challenging look.
“I suppose that watchdog is you. And what if I refuse to apologize?”
Ogata showed neither anxiety nor surprise.
He had expected precisely that response.
They were disciples of the Ishikawa Dojo, while he belonged to the Sakakibara Dojo.
Their schools were effectively enemies.
Obediently following the demand of a rival was unlikely from the beginning.
Furthermore, any man brazen enough to molest a young woman was clearly accustomed to acting without restraint.
Convincing such a person to apologize peacefully would be even more difficult.
Ogata placed his left hand against the mouth of his uchigatana’s saya and nodded toward the entrance.
“Then I must trouble the four of you to accompany me outside. This establishment is cramped, and I have no desire to pay for anything we might break.”
O-Saki finally noticed the disturbance and rushed from the kitchen.
“Ogata-sama!” she called anxiously.
“What happened?”
“Nothing serious.” Ogata smiled.
“Only a small matter that I’ll resolve for you immediately.”
With one hand resting near his swords, he walked toward Nagareya’s entrance.
After he stepped outside, every remaining customer turned to stare at the four samurai, whose faces shifted between pale blue and furious red.
If they remained seated, everyone would interpret it as cowardice.
As samurai, they would rather die than lose face and surrender their pride and honor.
The moment Ogata passed through the doorway, all four returned their swords to their waists and stormed outside.
O-Saki and O-Fuku followed closely.
The other customers abandoned their food and sake as well, eager to watch the spectacle.
A broad patch of open ground lay outside Nagareya.
It offered more than enough room for a match.
No sooner had Ogata taken his place than O-Fuku shouted, “Ogata-sama! What are you doing? I’m not angry anymore! You don’t need to fight for my sake!”
O-Fuku was neither foolish nor blind.
She could see that these four men were nothing like the common thugs who had caused trouble before.
They were true samurai, men who possessed surnames and the privilege of wearing swords.
When Ogata disciplined ordinary ruffians, there had been little danger.
He carried swords; they did not.
But these men were armed exactly as he was.
Fear for Ogata’s safety overwhelmed every concern for justice or dignity.
She wanted only to keep him from placing himself in danger.
Ogata listened, then gave her a helpless smile.
“O-Fuku-san, you need not worry. I will not be injured.”
The smile vanished completely from his face then.
With a solemn expression, he turned toward the four samurai before him.
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