The River. Part One. Chapter Four

In the year the bullet cut short the life of Prime Minister Inukai, the wind blowing over Japan changed its course.

It grew harsher, colder, and acquired the scent of steel. This wind tore into their school, stripping away the last remnants of its former tranquility. Discipline, which already resembled a tightly drawn string, was pulled taut until it hummed.

From that day on, the school changed. The portraits of the Emperor grew larger, the teachers’ gazes harder, and military uniforms flashed through the corridors with increasing frequency. Officers came to classes, speaking of the glory of the empire, of sacred duty, of the fact that soon — very soon — Japan would take its rightful place in the sun.

Ichiro observed them with a cold, respectful curiosity. He saw in them the embodiment of that steel beauty he had dreamed of since he was five. Their bearing was flawless, their faces impenetrable, their movements precise and economical. They were perfect mechanisms, created for a single purpose. They were what he wanted to become.

Teacher Tanaka now walked with the expression of a man whose hour had come. In class, he no longer spoke of the ancient samurai. He spoke of new heroes — of those who had not feared to shed blood for the purity of an idea.

“Inukai was old,” he would say, contempt lacing his voice. “He wanted peace with the West. Peace! As if a lion can negotiate with sheep. The young officers understood what politicians do not: sometimes, the sword must speak first.”

The classroom was silent. Even Daisuke, who usually stared out the window during such speeches, sat up straight, looking at the teacher. But in his gaze, Ichiro saw not admiration, but something akin to fear.

A week after the assassination, they were summoned to the principal’s office. Not just them — five other top students as well. They stood in the office, lined up like soldiers at an inspection. The principal — a dry man with a face like old parchment — swept his gaze over them.

Beside him stood an officer. Young, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that held nothing but cold evaluation. He looked at them the way one looks at horses before a purchase — studying their build, checking their teeth.

“The Empire needs new warriors,” the officer said, adjusting a glove of fine, snow-white leather. “Educated, loyal, ready. You have been granted the honor of continuing your education at the prefectural cadet corps.”

He paused, letting the words settle.

“Miyazaki Ichiro,” he looked directly at him. “You will make an excellent soldier. Your discipline, your loyalty — this is what the army needs.”

Ichiro bowed. His chest was hollow. Neither joy nor fear — only a sense of inevitability, as if he had been walking toward this moment his entire life.

“Yoshikawa Daisuke,” the officer shifted his gaze. “I know your grandfather served as an army cook. A noble tradition. The army requires not only warriors, but those who will feed them. You will continue the family trade.”

Daisuke bowed. Out of the corner of his eye, Ichiro saw his shoulders tremble. Just for a fraction of a second. But the officer noticed it.

The principal smiled obsequiously:
“This is a great honor for our school, Major. A great honor.”

“Any objections, Cadet?” the officer continued, ignoring the principal and looking straight at Daisuke.

“None at all, Major, sir,” he replied. “It is an honor.”

“Exactly,” the officer nodded. “An honor you must live up to.”

When they left the office, the other students looked at them with envy and fear. The cadet corps — it was simultaneously an elevation and a sentence. Elevation above the rest. A sentence to serve.

That evening, Ichiro came home and told his father. His father was silent for a long time, looking at him. Then he stood up, went to the old cabinet, and took out a bundle wrapped in white cloth.

“This was mine,” he said, unwrapping the cloth.

Inside lay a gunto — an army sword. Not a parade sword, but a working one, with signs of use on the hilt. His father placed it before Ichiro.

“I was never able to become an officer,” he said quietly. “But you… you will. You will become what I did not.”

There was pride in his voice, but beneath it — something else. Something resembling regret. Or a warning.

His mother stood in the doorway, clutching a kitchen towel to her chest. She was not crying. She simply looked at her son the way one looks at a departing train — knowing it will not return.

In the Yoshikawa home, silence reigned. His father sat at the table, staring into an empty cup. Yuki hid behind the screen, but Ichiro could hear her quiet sniffles.

“An army cook,” Daisuke’s father finally said. “Like your grandfather.”

“It is an honor,” Daisuke repeated the words from the principal’s office.

“An honor,” his father scoffed. “Do you know what your grandfather used to say about his service? ‘I fed boys who went off to die.’ That was all the honor there was.”

He stood up, heavy, like an old man.

“But there is no choice. When the empire calls, we answer. It has always been so.”

Yuki ran out from behind the screen and hugged her brother’s legs.

“Don’t go,” she whispered. “Who will play with me?”

Daisuke stroked her head.

“I will come back,” he said. “And I’ll bring you a new doll. The most beautiful one.”

That night, Ichiro lay awake, staring at his father’s sword. Moonlight glided along the blade, and in that cold gleam, he saw his future. Clear, straight as the line of the blade.

And in the neighboring district, Daisuke was not sleeping either. He was thinking of his grandfather, of his stories about the army kitchen. About how important it was to preserve at least a drop of warmth in the food, at least a hint of home. “Sometimes,” his grandfather would say, “a bowl of hot soup is all that separates a man from a beast.”

In the morning, they met at the school gates. Both with small bundles — all they were allowed to bring to the corps. Both silent, immersed in their own thoughts.

“Ready?” Ichiro asked.

“Is there a choice?” Daisuke replied.

They walked toward the gates. Behind them lay childhood, home, their former life. Ahead lay honor. Or what the empire called by that name.

Part One. Chapter Five →
← Foreword
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← A Road of a Thousand Years