Outposts All the Way Down

Spoiler:

Each morning was the same. Wake up, get dressed, eat breakfast, and while away the day reading and writing. Today seemed that it would likely be no different than any other. Yasahiro awoke with the sun and to the sound of chirping birds in the inn, he had called home for going on two weeks. Asahi still had yet to arrive, so the older cousin remained the sole occupant of the beach-side accommodations save for the two innkeepers, Sado and Hinotata. The innkeepers, however, kept out of the samurai’s way only really seeing him during mealtime when Hinotara, Sado, and the exile would talk.

“Thank you again for your hospitality,” the samurai said, digging into what had become a classic breakfast for him of late, curried fish and rice.

“Oh, you’re too kind, dear,” the kindly old Hinotara replied.

“You could have cooked the fish longer,” Sado quipped, getting a glare from his wife for his remark.

The two innkeepers, from what the exile could tell, loved each other dearly. Yet, the two always seemed to bicker back and forth like, well, an old married couple. Sado’s tone never seemed to deviate from the sarcastic, while his wife’s bordered on motherly. They were a strange pair to be sure, but not a bad strange, rather an endearing one—their mannerisms had grown on Yasahiro during his stay, they were easy to like.

“Oh well, honey,” Hinotara sighed, her gaze drifting back over to their guest. “At least someone likes it don’t they?”

“Absolutely,” Yasahiro said, avoiding the Sado’s wry smile. “It tastes wonderful, as always.”

The trio then fell silent as they began to eat in earnest. The whole thing had become a bit of a ritual wherein they would chat a bit before a meal, eat in silence, and then start to liven things up when the sake came out. One could say many things about the innkeeper couple, but they could drink well beyond what should have been feasible for people of their age.

“Here we are,” Sado broke the silence as he began to pour each of the trio, himself included, a cup of sake. “This is one we got from a traveler from Moon Country a year or so back. He called it Silver Moon Sake, it’ll knock you on your back in a heartbeat.”

“Moon Country?” Yasahiro asked, taking the glass from the old innkeeper. “What’s it like?”

“Peaceful,” Hinotara snorted. “A hell of a lot more peaceful than here, there are none of those Zukumiki thugs wandering about, I’m sure of that.”

“Mmm,” Sado agreed. “My dear wife isn’t wrong on that point. Some time ago our neighbors played host to a major shinobi village until it was destroyed by some madman or another, but now it’s peaceful.”

The trio paused, clinked their glasses together, and dove headfirst into the first drink for the night.

“You know,” Hinotara sighed, placing her glass back on the table. “Yamamoto, you remember him, right? He used to bring his daughter to play by the sea.”

Sado nodded and busied himself with the next glass of sake.

“Well, I ran into him in town the other day,” she took another drink. “He mentioned that Zukumiki’s men are starting to fortify the borders with a string of structures. It’s right strange that.”

“Is it strange?” the samurai chimed in, whenever the Zukumiki name cropped up of late he made a point to dig deeper on it. “It seems like it’s the logical next step for a man like that.”

“Well—”

“Who knows,” Sado butted in, the sake clearly hitting him sooner than either Yasahiro or Hinotara. “The Land of Rice has always been ruled by warlords; they do this kind of thing from time to time.”

The older man hiccuped.

“You know back when I was young it wasn’t Zukumiki, but Inuzuka…”

From there the night progressed as one might expect. Sado reminisced into unconsciousness, Hinotara became incoherent, and Yasahiro’s vision grew fuzzy around the edges. The sake, it seemed, was more than strong enough to send all parties involved into a deep sleep. The exile, for his part, was fortunate to somehow stumble back into his room while his generous hosts ended their night where it began, at the table.

The harsh morning light matured into a mellow overcast afternoon before the samurai regained consciousness again. His head pounding and stomach-churning, he spent the next hour or so in the restroom becoming deeply acquainted with the toilet therein, and, from the retching sounds ringing throughout the inn, he was not alone in this ritual. Suffice to say the trio had, to put it lightly, overindulged.

“Here you are,” Hinotara said, putting a bowl of dark miso soup in front of Yasahiro. “If this doesn’t get you right then nothing will, I added something special in there.”

Yasahiro, who now found himself reclining on the wraparound porch looking out at the sea, nodded weakly. Speech was, unfortunately, still failing him or, rather, he preferred not to open his mouth more than necessary for fear of the consequences he might face. He had only just rid himself of the taste of bile and had no intention of tasting it again any time soon.

In the distance, a couple of seagulls dipped into the ocean and a single boat plied the waters looking for its next catch. The Land of Rice had been the right choice, after all. The weather impeccable, the people pleasant, and the landscape captivating. The samurai took a sip of the miso soup—that was another thing: the food was to die for, in this case nearly literally.

The soup was spicy, much spicier than Yasahiro had expected. His eyes water, his nose ran, and, amazingly, his headache vanished. Hinotara’s special ingredient, whatever spice she had used, did, indeed, do the trick. And, though the thought of touching sake again in the near future still caused his stomach to flip over on itself, the exile felt relatively normal; he quickly wolfed down the rest of the soup despite the protests of his taste buds.

With his sinuses thoroughly cleared and clarity of thought returning to him, the samurai returned to what had become his routine. He perused the inn’s sparse library, selected a few books, and spent the rest of the day reading in his room. If Asahi could see him now he surely would have laughed, but the exile found it comforting to be able to retreat into a different world from time to time.

This particular afternoon’s book selection, however, did not necessarily transport Yasahiro to an entirely different world. Rather, it was a world couched in the past and made into history: The History of Rice; Farming and Fatigue; and Three Days at Sea were all books that depicted the difficult past of Rice Country and found their way into the samurai’s room this particular afternoon.

Perhaps it was the conversation from the night previous or maybe it was his encounters with Zukumiki’s men a couple of times before, but the exile could not shake the warlord from his head. Even as he tried to read, the name floated in and out of his thoughts like a phantom—in reading the histories of Rice Country it was clear not a whole lot changed.

Why was Zukumiki expanding his outpost network?

The question lingered in the man’s mind for the rest of the day. And, though it surely shouldn’t have, it followed him into his dreams that night. Deep down he knew he shouldn’t care about the fate of some middle of nowhere country and, yet, here he was caring and worrying. Perhaps it was worth looking into the whole outpost thing...it wouldn’t be that hard to do, plus it could be interesting.

Unlike the previous day, Yasahiro was awake to greet the early morning sun as its warm rays spread out across Gaikotsu Bay. Instead of his typical post up on the inn’s porch, the rays found the samurai on an ill-traveled sideroad in his best black attire. Even his hair, normally wild and messy, had been tamed back into a neat bun that gave the illusion of one of higher standing than the rogue could ever hope to claim. He couldn’t, after all, appear at nobility’s doorstep without looking the part.

Somewhere in the night, as he tossed and turned, the idea had come to him or, rather, a memory had: the memory of Lord Kita and his daughter Ai. The exile had last seen the father-daughter pair when their caravan was attacked by Zukumiki’s men; it was clear the Kita family had no love for the bandit king, perhaps then he would be willing to help. Help, in this case, Yasahiro hoped would amount to more information about the outposts and the warlord’s eventual goals—Sado and Hinotara could only provide a narrow view on the situation, the samurai needed something more expansive.

The Kita residence—if one could call a multitiered castle a residence—stood ensconced on a peninsula with the sea acting as a natural moat on three sides. Frankly, it seemed a strange place to build a castle. Sure, it was no doubt easily defendable should it come under attack, but it certainly wouldn’t be able to project influence over large tracts on land like it might have if it had been built in a more central location. Then again, such a structure would have to sacrifice valuable cropland and, from his brief interaction with Lord Kita, he did not seem to be a man with his eyes set on conquest.

Perhaps the Kitas simply wanted to be left alone?

Such thoughts were, however, soon pushed from the samurai’s mind. Now was not the time to be questioning his soon-to-be host’s motives or architectural choices. After all, it would be hard enough to remember the etiquette classes he took when he was younger—it simply wouldn’t do to commit some kind of gaff in front of a man who he was asking for help.

“You there,” the Samurai called out to a guard at the gates of the castle. “I’m here to see Lord Kita.”

“Halt, stranger,” the guard, a woman, barked. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Well, no,” he responded stopping in his tracks some distance from the gates. “I was—”

“No appointment, no entry,” the guard said a bit too gleefully. “Those are the rules, come back another day when you have an appointment.”

So much for the Rice Country’s hospitality.

“Could you at least let Lord Kita know I’m here,” the exile’s tone never faltered “My name is Yasahiro Yagami, and I am here to see him about Zukumiki.”

Perhaps the name Zukumiki struck a nerve or perhaps it was simply the black-clad man’s imagination,  but the guard seemed to stand up a bit straighter.

“Well, I, uh—” the guard stammered as a figure in a light blue kimono appeared by her side.

The exchange that followed was a muffled mess at best even to Yasahiro’s ears. What was clear, however, was that the figure in blue and the guard were bickering back and forth in a manner that seemed much more familiar than one might expect from the status their two opposing attires would indicate. The samurai, for his part, remained silent for he recognized the woman in blue; it was Ai, Lord Kita’s daughter, and the center of the last contract the exile executed on.

“Yagami-san,” the lilting voice of Ai called out after some time. “My father will see you.”

Ai’s gaze flicked over to the guard whose visibly shrunk before bringing her attention back to Yasahiro.

“I apologize for the greeting you received,” she continued. “Now, come along; you’re just in time for tea.”

Without a word—and avoiding the glare of the guard—the samurai followed the daughter of the feudal lord into the large castle.

“Shenmae can be a bit defensive when it comes to strangers,” Ai spoke without looking back. “She’s been with us for as long as I can remember, but with all that has happened recently, well, she’s a bit on edge.”

“Oh?” the samurai played the part of a guest well. “What’s happened recently?”

“Come now, you don’t seem a dullard,” she cast a disapproving glance over her shoulder. “Even if you are, it doesn’t take a genius to see the state our country’s in right now. What with bandits ruling much of the land and Zukumiki’s men having their way with our people’s wealth.”

She paused as if to contemplate whether it was worth continuing.

“Well,” she clearly decided against continuing. “Let’s just say that there was an incident a week or so ago—you can’t blame Shenmae all that much really…”

The rest of the walk through the impressive fortress was done in silence, which suited the samurai. He took the time to collect himself and admire the lavish interior of the castle. There were suits of armor and weapons of every kind lining the walls along with paintings and prints that must have cost a small fortune. The Kita family, quite clearly, had some wealth, though the age of the armor and weapons seemed to be indicative of a bygone age. Perhaps they were merely generational heirlooms? Yasahiro couldn’t be all that sure.

“Please, wait here just a moment,” Ai’s voice was soft now, nearly a whisper. “I’ll inform father of your arrival.”

Once more the samurai was alone with his thoughts. Was Ai more talkative than she had been before? He couldn’t quite remember, the escort mission he had been on was all a sleep-deprived blur at this point. Though, she did—he remembered—still have that certain spoiled attitude that would have driven any sane person out of their mind.

“Yasahiro,” the voice of Lord Kita boomed from within the tea room. “Please come in and take a seat.”

Pacing himself, the exile walked into the room, gave a slight bow, and took a seat across from Lord Kita and his daughter—he seemed to have aged considerably since last he saw him.

“Thank you for having me,” Yasahiro said, his gaze never wavering from the man before him. “Please, allow me.”

Taking the tea, the samurai poured each of them a cup of tea: first Lord Kita, then his daughter, and, lastly, himself. He then sat back down and waited for Lord Kita to continue, as he surely would.

“Indeed, you’re always welcome for tea after what you’ve done for my daughter and I,” Lord Kita said, taking a sip of tea. “I assume, however, that you’re not here solely for our hospitality.”

“True,” the samurai agreed. “I am here about Zukumiki.”

Lord Kita’s face sharpened into a scowl.

“More specifically,” he continued. “I am here about the rumors I’ve been hearing about the network of outposts he’s been setting up around the borders of your country. Frankly, I’d like to know more about them.”

“Ah, yes,” Lord Kita sighed. “One of my dear friends, Onosaki-san, was stopped by the men working on those outposts. Apparently, they intend to levy a travel tax on those who pass through, it’s absurd. Does Zukumiki want our country to starve for lack of capital?”

Economics and capital had never been a strong subject for Yasahiro so he was reluctant to go further into the details with Lord Kita who was clearly quite passionate about them.

“I can’t be sure,” the samurai shrugged. “But I was hoping to do some investigating and was hoping you’d be able to point me in the right direction.”

“Hmm,” Lord Kita, much like his daughter, chose his words carefully. “I am more than happy to fund such a fact-finding mission. I would recommend going far to the southeast of the country where they’re still building their network. It should be easy enough for you to get more information there.”

The remaining visit was filled with an exchange of pleasantries that ranged from a retelling of the trio’s flight across the country all the way to the new litter of puppies Ai’s dog had recently. It was nice and, much to the samurai’s surprise, quite relaxing. Perhaps he had expected more tension?

Regardless of what he expected, the exile was on the road to the southeast in a matter of hours. His formal wear had long since been replaced with that of one befitting a humble farmer. Where once he wore black now there were brown rags accented by a wide-brimmed conical hat woven from husks. It seemed to be far better to go under a guise one would easily overlook on the road without a second glance—he hadn’t even bothered to take his sword. After all, it simply wouldn’t do to find himself forced into an unnecessary altercation with Zukumiki’s men before a time and place that best suited the exile.

The plan itself was—in the samurai’s mind—rather straightforward. It would be a matter of approaching the half-constructed outposts in the night, glean any information from the guards, and perhaps intercept a communique or two to learn more about Zukumiki’s plans. Frankly, any bit of information would do at this point, no matter how big or small. With any luck he would be in and out of Zukumiki’s network without attracting any undue attention, arousing the warlord’s rage would be, well, unwise.

Thankfully, the road to the south was rarely traveled, especially due to the unrest in Konohagakure of late. Indeed, Yasahiro was fortunate enough to only meet a few groups of farmers and one Zukumiki patrol on the road. The farmers kept their heads down and the Zukumiki patrol paid a single man on the road little mind. In fact, it seemed that the Zukumiki patrol’s attention was turned inwards as if they had other matters on their minds. Of course, all this suited the exile just as well.

The further the samurai got the lower the sun fell from the sky until it dipped below the horizon at last leaving the landscape in darkness. On either side of the road, fields of rice swayed this way and that leaving the samurai to catch what looked like hidden figures in the edges of his vision. These ‘figures’, however, were, upon closer inspection, simple tricks of the eye; the land of rice had a strange atmosphere to it and was unlike anywhere the exile had ever been.

And so it was under a starless, overcast sky that the samurai proceeded ever closer to the southern border of Rice Country. Soon, however, the blackness around him gave way to a thin orange line of light flickering on the horizon. It was still far too early for the sun to be rising again, so the exile concluded it had to be getting close to his destination—Zukumiki must be driving his men to work through the night. Whatever he hoped to gain from the outposts, he was willing to push his men hard for it, and it only added a sense of urgency to Yasahiro’s progression.

The line of orange on the horizon grew larger and larger the longer the samurai continued on his way until the distant sound of voices sent him into the rice paddies at the side of the road. Steadying his breathing, he remained stalk still as a heavily armored group of three individuals passed by bearing the crest of Zukumiki on their backs. The rest of the way forward, it would seem, would not be easy in the slightest; stealth would be the name of the game now, he did not much like the idea of getting caught by any of the guards.

Keeping to the shadows of the rice paddies, he moved soundlessly from field to field timing his movements to avoid the regular cadence of the increasingly frequent patrols. Unlike a few hours previously, when his breaths came easily, the samurai found himself rationing each unnecessary movement meaning his breathing became barely audible, his steps carefully measured, and his head on a steady swivel. Each step brought him deeper and deeper into enemy territory—it simply wouldn’t do to get captured when he was so close.

Moving through the darkness, he could not keep his mind off the possibility of his capture. The thought, it seemed, danced on the edge of his consciousness not daring to demand more attention than it did lest it become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Nonetheless, the thoughts came: beatings, torture, and maybe death surely awaited him if he were caught. Zukumiki’s men had certainly done far worse for far less than sneaking through their ranks, and it took all the samurai’s willpower not to dwell on the horror stories his hosts told of the bandit king’s men.

He had to stay focused.

And focused he remained until the stars were blotted out by the now omnipresent glow of the lights around the active construction site. Squatting in the waist-deep water of the last remaining paddy field before the barren line of outposts that stretched east to west as far as the eye could see, Yasahiro plotted his next move. There were no more shadows to move in nor rice paddies to offer shelter. It would all come down to timing and more than a bit of luck.

The two closest half-built outposts had about ten men working on them. One group was leveling the ground around the first and the second were erecting further scaffolding around the easternmost outpost to allow it to reach even greater heights. Neither of these outposts, however, interested the exile nearly as much as what must have been a foreman’s tent between the outposts, if he was ever going to find out what the purpose of the outposts was it was going to be here.

Half an hour passed before Yasahiro made his move in an opening that came with what must have been a shift change. Most of the workers moved to the east along with a small contingent of planners that had been occupying the foreman’s tent. Only a single man remained high on the scaffolding with his back to the samurai—it was now or never.

Staying low, the black-clad man stalked into the tent without a sound. Indeed, it would have been a perfect plan had the tent been empty. Rather, much to his surprise, the samurai nearly walked into a slight man with circular glasses leaving the pair only moments to react to each other. The man went for a hammer on his belt, but the exile was faster, much faster. In a single stride, he was on the man and in practiced motion brought the heel of his hand down against the back of the slight man’s head who crumpled to the ground like a doll.

Wasting no time, the exile moved to the messy draft table and bundled the documents he found there together into one of the available surveying pouches. While he did not spend much time discerning the exact details of each document, he did glean the next steps in Zukumiki’s construction project: walls. The outposts were merely the framework for a much larger wall that would allow the bandit king to effectively cordon off the Land of Rice from the rest of the world, surely nothing good would come of it for the people within the walls.

The rest of the night was a blur as he retreated back into the shadows and into the rice paddies once more. Weaving through patrols with his newly acquired surveying satchel, Yasahiro retraced his steps, being even more careful than he had been before. Before death had been a possibility upon capture, but now it became a certainty. Fortunately, however, it was a certainty he would not have to face for soon the construction site was once more a dim light on the horizon; his information-gathering mission was a success. All that remained was to report back to Lord Kita and then get some sleep back at the inn as he pondered his next steps. After all, Zukumiki couldn’t be allowed to continue to tighten his grip on the land, something had to be done.

Someone had to do something.
---
TWC: 4017
+ 8000 ryo
+ 40 ap
+ 1875 words to fully train A-rank Sword Storm using full stat discount (25%)
+ 2063 words to fully train Seal of Absorption using full stat discount (25%)
Casting the remaining 79 words into the void cause nothing piques my interest at the moment.

Approved