Ogata stopped agonizing over whether he had returned to ancient Japan or entered a parallel version of it.
Whichever world this was, the necessities of life remained the same.
He still had to eat, sleep, and do his best to stay alive.
So he turned to the next question: how was he supposed to live from now on?
Shing.
Ogata drew the uchigatana resting in his arms once more.
As he studied its gleaming blade, he released a long sigh.
“What use is a sword in this age?”
The Edo period might have been an age in which the samurai stood above the other classes and alone possessed the privilege of bearing a surname and wearing swords.
But Japan had been at peace for well over a century since the founding of the Tokugawa shogunate—nearly two hundred years.
The entire country was tranquil.
To put it bluntly, the samurai sword no longer had any battlefield on which to prove its worth.
The system in Ogata’s mind was clearly an extraordinary advantage that could improve his martial abilities at astonishing speed.
Defeating or killing an opponent granted Experience.
Experience led to Skill Points.
Skill Points could give him a powerful body and superb martial techniques in the blink of an eye.
But what purpose would a strong body and magnificent swordsmanship serve?
This age no longer needed the samurai sword.
Even if he became a great swordsman, what could he do with that strength?
In such a peaceful era, the best future available to a renowned swordsman was to open a dojo.
If he established one successfully and attracted many disciples, Ogata could live comfortably and stop surviving on thin porridge every day.
Yet the thought that opening a dojo might be his finest prospect left him strangely disappointed.
He had no interest in founding a school.
He did not want to run a dojo.
But if someone asked what he did want to do, Ogata could not answer that either.
He did not know what he wanted—or what he was capable of doing.
The conflicting thoughts pulled back and forth inside his mind while time slipped away.
Gradually, drowsiness rose through his body.
“What time is it?”
There was no clock in the house.
He could estimate the hour from the sky, but he could not be bothered to go outside.
Since he was already sleepy, Ogata decided simply to go to bed.
Landless samurai like Ogata could, in modern terms, be compared to civil servants.
Samurai attached to the shogunate helped administer its political affairs, while retainers serving a daimyō performed similar duties for their lord and domain.
Except for rōnin who had lost their masters or been expelled from their domains, nearly every samurai held some form of employment.
Ogata served as a storehouse official.
His responsibilities resembled those of an accountant in the modern world.
He managed and inventoried the various supplies kept in the domain’s storehouses.
Even storehouse officials were divided into several ranks.
Ogata happened to occupy one of the lowest positions, which was why his annual stipend amounted to a miserable fifty koku.
* * *
Ogata awoke when the sky had only begun to brighten.
It was his second day in the Edo period—and the first morning he had experienced in this age.
After washing and dressing, he slid his two swords through the obi at his left hip and prepared to enter the castle town for work.
By day, he performed his duties as a storehouse official.
After work, he trained at the Sakakibara Dojo.
Once he had eaten his evening meal, he went to sleep.
That was Ogata’s daily life: orderly, predictable, and somewhat dull.
His home stood far from his workplace, forcing him to rise early every morning if he wanted to arrive on time.
“Good morning, Ogata-kun.”
“You look well today, Ogata-kun.”
“Morning, Ogata.”
Ogata smiled and returned each greeting.
The men welcoming him were fellow storehouse officials—his colleagues.
He now stood inside a room that was neither especially spacious nor particularly cramped.
Writing desks filled it from one end to the other.
Ogata and the others worked here each day, kneeling before those desks.
Several men who had arrived earlier were already bent over their work.
After responding to the greetings, Ogata settled into seiza before his own desk.
It looked exactly like all the others: paper, brushes, an abacus, and piles of account books covered its surface.
Ogata was not particularly close to his colleagues.
He was the only young man in the room; everyone else was middle-aged or elderly, with gray already spreading through their hair.
The difference left them with few topics in common, so their relationships never developed beyond ordinary cordiality.
Ogata also avoided nearly every social gathering.
His colleagues frequently went drinking together or listened to musicians, and they had invited him many times.
He always declined.
Partly, this was because he was poor and could not spare the money.
More importantly, he preferred practicing at the Sakakibara Dojo with his fellow disciples.
Makino and the others were his real friends.
Rather than attend social gatherings that did not interest him with colleagues he barely knew, Ogata wanted to practice the sword he loved beside the people he considered companions.
Thus, he and the other storehouse officials remained no more than coworkers who exchanged polite greetings.
Without wasting time on conversation, Ogata opened one of the account books and began working.
He had inherited everything from the former Ogata except his personality: memories, swordsmanship, and professional ability.
His fingers moved over the abacus with effortless precision as he calculated the quantities of supplies entering and leaving the storehouses under his supervision.
The work proceeded smoothly and methodically.
The room filled with the rustle of turning pages and the clicking of wooden counting beads.
But no matter the place or profession, some people always found opportunities to neglect their work.
Several officials began chatting while their hands continued moving.
“Did you hear about what happened yesterday?”
“What happened?”
“Ah, I heard something about it from someone else.”
“Then tell us. What was it?”
“Our lord went hunting again yesterday. On his way back, a little girl chasing a ball accidentally ran into his procession.”
“And then? What happened to the girl?”
“I don’t know. I heard our lord cut her down on the spot, but I also heard she survived. Whatever the truth is, I doubt the poor child came to a good end.”
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