《The Twelve》Prologue
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“I see.” The man in seiza muttered, raising his head with his eyes closed. “So that’s the choice you’ve made, huh?”
The one by the open door nodded, even though the one who had spoken had his back facing him.
“You’ve made your stars awfully hard to see and decipher, Joman. I couldn’t see this coming at all.” The woman beside the previous man continued, also in seiza, with her legs neatly folded under her and her back straight. Her voice, while disapproving, had a slight hint of pride in it.
The man at the door, Joman, twitched a little at her words. “I thank you for your compliment.”
“I can sense your hesitation, Joman.” The first man spoke again, with a sigh. “Have we not been brought up under the same master?”
“We have, Mado.”
“Then why do you cry?” Mado’s voice softened.
Huh? Joman raised a hand to his face. It’s wet.
“This is the choice you’ve made, and the path you have turned onto.” Mado continued. “This… will be where we part ways, Joman. Take pride in your choice, and walk on your path with that same pride. Tsuchimikados are not a family of cowards.”
Joman took a few steps closer towards the pair who still had their backs facing him. He wiped a hand over his eyes, then reached behind his back. Where a wooden tube was tucked into his obi.
“Will you not fight back?” He whispered, his voice shaking more than he had anticipated.
Mado shook his head slowly. “I will not raise my fists against my brother. Let this also be a test of your will.”
“To fulfill your dreams, how much are you ready to sacrifice, Joman?” The woman asked.
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“Promise me one thing, Joman.” Mado quietly said. “Make it fast for Ren.”
Joman sniffed hard, tears dripping onto the tatami matted ground. His hand had started shaking as it held onto the wooden tube.
“I understand. I will. And, I’m sorry, Mado. I’m sorry, Tomoe.” He said as he drew the knife from its sheath. “May we meet again.”
His movements were fast and silent, and the blade was already back in its sheath, its owner walking out of the room before the two collapsed onto the floor with an unsatisfying thud, a thick red liquid spreading and soaking into the tatami’s bamboo threads.
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