This is a story I heard from Shisho. It was the end of spring during my second year of university. I knocked on the door of Shisho’s apartment. He was my master in the occult. I waited, but there was no answer. I knew the door wasn't locked, but after all, it was a woman's room. Normally I would have hesitated, but he had just left this apartment moments ago. Without mercy, I shoved the door open. Shisho was sleeping in the middle of the room. That morning hadn't been particularly warm, but by just before noon, the temperature had suddenly spiked. Coupled with the rain from the day before, it was intensely muggy. You couldn't exactly call his room a good property, and it took the full brunt of these extreme temperature swings. Shisho was sprawled face down on the tatami mats, buried face-first into a cushion. I took off my shoes, stepped inside, approached him, and called out. "..." He gave some kind of response, but it was muffled and I couldn't make it out. "Shisho." I said again, tapping him on the shoulder. Finally, his face lifted slightly from the cushion. He looked thoroughly exhausted. He said something else. I leaned in close to listen. "I don't want to do anything... except see ghosts." Huh? "Excuse me." I shook Shisho's body again as his face sank back into the cushion. "It's here, this thing." I rustled the paper bag I was holding in my left hand right above his head. "Hey. Look at this." Shisho wiped a light film of sweat from his cheek, turned his face halfway toward me, and muttered through half-closed, deeply suspicious eyes: "I don't want to see... anything except ghosts."
"Well. I don't care about your little declarations, so give me the money. The money I advanced for you. Besides, you were the one who just sent me out on an errand in the first place." Annoyed, I pulled the name stamp out of the paper bag and waved it in front of Shisho, whose face was buried in the cushion once more. When he didn't react, I pressed it against the back of his neck. Oh crap. Red stuff came off. It seemed some ink was still left from testing it at the shop. Finally recalling everything from that sensation, Shisho let out a deep sigh and pushed his upper body up. "Ah right. I asked you to, didn't I? How much was it?" It was an order rather than a request—he had told me to go pick up the name stamp he had ordered. "It was expensive." He snorted at the price I quoted and resentfully searched his wallet. Before long, he made a sheepish face. "Are you broke again?" He looked somehow thinner than usual. "No, I have money coming in. Even today... today?" He stopped searching his wallet and looked right at me. Then he immediately lunged at the phone. He dialed somewhere. The person on the other end picked up. "Sorry. I forgot." That was the first thing he said out of his mouth. I started to worry whether I would ever get back the money I'd advanced for the stamp. After a brief exchange, Shisho hung up the receiver, scratching his head. "I forgot to go to the office." By "office," he meant the detective agency where he worked part-time. It was called the Ogawa Investigation Agency. Shisho occasionally took on jobs there. They were usually bizarre cases that other agencies had bounced around before finally ending up here. And this time, that kind of bizarre request had come in by name. Word of mouth, no doubt. Lately, it felt like there were a lot of requests specifically asking for him. I suppose that meant he was getting results.
I helped him out with those jobs. Though I was just learning by watching, it was surprisingly interesting, and I had come to look forward to Shisho calling on me. "The client we were supposed to meet seems to have left, but the boss apparently heard them out, so I'm heading to the office now." Of course I tagged along. Mostly because of the money I spent on the stamp. As soon as we arrived at the office, the boss, Mr. Ogawa, scolded Shisho. Naturally, it was about blowing off the meeting. In such a small detective agency, every single case was a vital business deal. No matter how weird the request, they had to be professional and treat it with care—at least in front of the client. He wanted that kind of mindset maintained at all times... and so on. Mr. Ogawa seemed easygoing, but when it came down to business, he meant it. Shisho listened with a drooping posture, but once the sermon was cut off at an appropriate point, the topic shifted to the details of the case. "That being said, I wonder about this one. I'm doubtful we'll meet expectations." Mr. Ogawa said casually, spreading his hands. The client's name was Kuramochi. A man in his seventies who collected Japanese swords as a hobby. The request was about those swords. "Sounds like a guy with money," Shisho muttered under his breath.
The other day, Mr. Kuramochi had attended a study session regarding Japanese swords. Though they called it a study session, after a lecture by an expert who held the title of sword researcher, everyone would bring out and show off their prized possessions, ending up in rambling, idle chat where they all critiqued this and that. Among them was a man of the same age whom Kuramochi often saw at these gatherings. Noticing the man had an unusually smug look on his face, Kuramochi watched as he carefully pulled out a single sword and began his pitch. It was a *Shinsinto*—a masterpiece by the Aizu master, Miyoshi Nagamichi. Dating back to the Keio era, it was likely the eighth generation. The blade length was two shaku, seven sun, five bu (approx. 83 cm). A long sword characteristic of the end of the Edo period, giving it a remarkably striking appearance. The steel grain (*jihada*) was *ko-itame*, and the temper pattern (*hamon*) was a shallow *o-gunome midare*.
Though the blade was slightly worn down from sharpening, the base thickness (*moto-kasane*) was a full three bu, making it a powerful piece. The owner was speaking with immense pride. When it came to Miyoshi Nagamichi, the first generation was a master swordsmith of the highest grade, known as the Aizu Kotetsu. Pieces of genuine quality commanded prices so high you couldn't easily touch them. However, as time went on and the generations progressed, they weren't *that* special anymore. Looking at it comprehensively—including the blade and the mountings—while it was certainly a good piece, Kuramochi couldn't help wondering if it was really worth bragging about to that extent. The Kawachi-no-Kami Kunisuga the man had shown off previously was a far better item. Just as he was thinking this, the man who brought the Nagamichi spoke up. "And yet, this presence, this wild rustic charm—is it really something that comes merely from its looks?" Everyone watched, wondering what he was getting at. Then, the man began to talk about the origins of this sword. He talked at length, but to sum it up: During the end of the Edo period, this Miyoshi Nagamichi belonged to a certain senior retainer's household in the Ozu Domain. Amidst a domain culture deeply entrenched in loyalty to the Emperor, a relative of that senior retainer attempted to raise an army with private soldiers in response to the Kinmon Incident sparked by the Choshu domain. In the precarious political climate right after the Coup of August 18, it was an unforgivable act of folly. The senior retainer strongly rebuked him, but when he wouldn't listen, the retainer was forced to weep and secretly cut him down to ensure the safety of the household. The man announced that the very Miyoshi Nagamichi used to cut down that young samurai relative was right here, and the members of the study session let out gasps of awe. Swords were made to cut people down, but you rarely ever laid eyes on a sword that had actually killed a man. To be precise, you could never confirm the fact that it had killed someone. After all, authentication papers never mentioned things like that. The man who brought the Miyoshi Nagamichi had reportedly received it from a friendly storyteller. The storyteller's lineage traced back to that senior retainer, and the anecdote had been passed down as a household secret along with the heirloom sword. Hearing this, the sword enthusiasts looked utterly fascinated, showering praise on the Miyoshi Nagamichi before them one after another. "Now that you mention it, it certainly has an awe-inspiring aura unlike any other," and "A faint, eerie mist seems to be drifting from the tip," they remarked, asking to touch it.
Even the sword research expert chimed in with a deeply moved expression, saying, "It feels as though the resentment of youthful ambition cut short is dwelling within it." Kuramochi hadn't felt good about it on the inside. He figured that even if the smith's signature was genuine, there was no way to know if that anecdote was true or false, but he hesitated to voice it. Pouring cold water on the gathering would surely make him out to be the bad guy. The meeting came to an end, and even after returning home, his mood wouldn't settle. When he took out all the Japanese swords in his collection and lined them up, the thought crept into his mind: *Might there be swords mixed in among these that have killed people too?* It drove him to the point where he couldn't sit still. "So, that's where I come in?" "That's it." Kuramochi had caught wind of rumors about Shisho, the "ghost specialist," and came to request an appraisal. An appraisal! I almost burst out laughing. Was he going to pull something like, *"Hmm, I sense the spirit of a townsman executed without trial clinging to this one"*? It was sketchy as hell from an outsider's perspective. "I don't really know much about swords, so this is tough," Shisho sighed, looking troubled. "Me neither. I'm a *katana-nashi* (swordless/useless)," Mr. Ogawa made a flippant remark that made it hard to tell if he was joking, raising his palms. "However, it seems like he's actually experiencing weird presences or sounds at home—things that make him think it's a psychic phenomenon." "...It's just in his head." "Who knows. Anyway, because of all that, he wants an expert to come take a look." "An expert, huh," Shisho shrugged, but his eyes lit up with curiosity. "Did you already accept?" "I told him we'd contact him later." With a thoughtful expression, Shisho tilted his head as if an idea had struck him. "...Miyoshi Nagamichi, I feel like I've heard that name before." I couldn't help but chime in.
"It's Kondo Isami's favorite sword. The Shinsengumi. It was bestowed upon him by Matsudaira Katamori, the Kyoto Protector, for his service at the Ikedaya Incident. When people think of Kondo Isami, Kotetsu is more famous, but they say that one was a fake name." Shisho gave me a look that said, *What's up with you?* "You know your stuff." Mr. Ogawa suddenly turned serious. "My parents' house is full of them—long swords, short swords. I'm just like a priest at the temple gate, though." Shisho placed a rough hand on my shoulder as I said that. "Alright, I'll take it. That job." I groaned, "No way." A wave of anxiety washed over me—what if something went wrong and it got blamed on me? "He said if we're taking it, sooner is better. He asked us to come out to his house." "So, like, even today?" "He said he'll mostly be home for the next two or three days." Shisho declared this without much thought at all. "Call him and tell him we're going there today, right now." "Got it." The boss, who was the sole employee of this tiny detective agency, easily gave the green light to the selfish whims of the part-time worker who had shown up late. "You're free, right?" Shisho turned an undeniable smile toward me. I had no choice. I was interested too.
After that, Mr. Ogawa called Mr. Kuramochi to inform him that the requested investigator would be heading over shortly, bringing one assistant along with him. Then, after checking a neighborhood map and briefly discussing the contract to be handed to the client with Shisho, Mr. Ogawa hesitated, looking restless and oddly lost for words. Wondering what was wrong, I watched as he glanced slightly upward and said, "Ah," followed by, "Well, you know." "I was a bit too harsh earlier. My bad. Sorry for always tossing weird cases your way." Mr. Ogawa gave a slight bow to Shisho. Shisho's face instantly softened. "No, I can't defend myself for blowing it off. I'll be careful."
"Yeah," Mr. Ogawa said, before twisting the tip of his necktie. "Well, I'm not saying you shouldn't do that kind of stuff, but doing it in broad daylight—you might want to dial that back a bit." Me and Shisho both made a *Huh?* face. Mr. Ogawa tapped his own neck. Uninentionally, both of us stared at that area of his neck. It was a slender neck. Looking startled, Shisho touched his own neck and cast his gaze down to his fingertips. There was a faint red tint on them. A faint, blurred, round red mark smeared across the back of his neck, too. *Ah, the stamp.* The moment I thought that, accompanied by a roar of "You moron!", Shisho's foot came flying straight into my solar plexus.
"Ouch," I muttered, rubbing my right arm as I walked down the office stairs. Shisho seemed to have remembered something and said, "Wait outside for a minute," before turning back alone. As I stood chatting with a familiar waitress in front of the coffee shop downstairs, Shisho came walking down with a happy look on his face. "Let's go grab something to eat," he said, fluttering a few thousand-yen bills. It seemed he had gotten an advance on the investigation fee. Still, for a job that just involved going to a house to look at swords, would they really use an investigation fee? I wondered about it, but well, since he gave it to me, I guessed it was fine to use. "But we just called and said we were heading over right now," I admonished him, whereupon Shisho gave me a resentful look and started hurrying me along, saying, "Then let's go finish this up quick." Looking at a copied map, we rode double on a bicycle toward our destination. Wiping the sweat away from the muggy heat time and time again, we pedaled for a good twenty minutes or so. We spotted Mr. Kuramochi's house in a corner of a residential neighborhood lined with old houses. "Huh," Shisho said, taking his feet off the rear axle. It was a much grander Japanese-style house than I had imagined. The garden visible through the Sukiya-style gate was quite expansive. When we announced our arrival via the intercom by the gate, Mr. Kuramochi's own voice replied, "Please come in."
Walking along the stone pavement while taking in scenery that felt more like a landscaped garden than a mere yard, we reached the front door. With a rattle, the door slid open, and an elderly man in traditional Japanese clothing greeted us. "I am Kuramochi." His sharp expression stretched across a lean frame. I had heard he was in his seventies, but his spirited posture made him look a bit younger. "Please, come on in." He swept his right hand out while appraising Shisho with his gaze. I felt nervous, but Shisho calmly took off his shoes and followed behind Mr. Kuramochi. We walked down a polished wooden hallway that emitted cool-sounding creaks and were led into a spacious Japanese-style room facing the garden. "I'll get some tea," Mr. Kuramochi said, disappearing, and when he returned shortly after, high-end Japanese sweets were riding alongside the tea on a tray. Host and guests straightened their postures and introduced themselves once more. I timidly handed over my business card as well. "Mr. Sakamoto." I still wasn't used to the sound of it. I was using a fake name because the boss had forced it on me, but I always felt anxious that this lie would be found out. It was supposedly consideration for my future, but if I was afraid of getting tangled up in that kind of troublesome nonsense, I wouldn't have been following a guy like Shisho around in the first place... "As for me, I'm an assistant... well, more like just an escort." Perhaps unhappy with my tone, Shisho poked my foot to egg me on with his eyes, telling me to *act confident*. "Let's get right to it. I'd like you to show me the item in question." After finishing the business regarding the contract, Shisho cut straight to the point. "Yes, right this way." Mr. Kuramochi stood up, placing both hands on the floor. Left alone in the room together, I lowered my voice and spoke to Shisho. "Do you feel anything?" The quiet Japanese-style house felt as though the muggy heat outside had somehow been eased, and the gradual fading of my sweat felt pleasant. After Shisho swept his gaze from the tatami to the walls and then to the four corners of the ceiling, he said, "Nothing."
I felt the same way. I didn't sense any trace of a psychic phenomenon at all. It seemed highly likely this was just all in Mr. Kuramochi's head. That, in turn, made me feel a bit heavy-hearted, as it seemed to silently imply just how strong his desire was to believe that a sword capable of killing a man existed among his collection. I couldn't help but think that the impact on his psyche was significant, having recognized the existence of that added value—beyond mere monetary worth—at the study session the other day. And that was an issue tied to the difficulty of this request. If Shisho couldn't sense anything even after looking at the sword, simply telling him so might not be the end of it. Therefore, thinking of Mr. Kuramochi's stern expression, my heart inevitably grew heavy. "Thank you for waiting." The man himself returned and took his seat. Contrary to my expectations, his hands were empty. Responding to our gaze, he smiled faintly. "The item for you to appraise has been prepared in another room." Before that, Mr. Kuramochi paused slightly, as if harboring something unsaid. "While I did consult you after hearing of your reputation, this is also my first time doing something like this. I sometimes see psychics on television and the like, but you know, everyone has different methods and says different things. How should I put it... well, I don't usually have the opportunity to meet such people, so part of me has been wondering what on earth this is all about." Shisho's face clouded over. It was a roundabout way of speaking, but in short, he was demanding proof. Since he was paying to have someone appraise whether or not a sword had killed a person using power beyond human understanding, he wanted to make sure he wasn't just being fed some random bullshit by an untalented fraud. For someone who asked for help in the first place, he was quite shrewd. As I watched to see what Shisho would do, he let out a light breath and said, "Very well." "I can commune with the spirits of the dead. Therefore, if there is a sword that has hacked a person to death, I will be able to see the spirit of the dead clinging to it. ...For instance, much like your late wife, who is still lingering right by your shoulder."
The atmosphere shifted. Mr. Kuramochi's face trembled with tension. "How did you know I was a widower?" "Because I can see her. And your wife tells me many things. You built a fine house through the wholesale grocery business passed down from your predecessor. Now, you've handed the company over to your son, living a life of leisure and enjoying your hobbies. Lying right next door is the house belonging to your son and his wife, isn't it?" Cold reading! I was excited. The claim that he could see the wife's spirit was probably a lie. He had just said moments ago that he didn't feel anything in this house. That meant Shisho was pulling information from things he had actually observed and from his conversation with the client. He was using the exact same tricks as fake psychics. Doing so to win their trust. What a guy. Caught in a swirling mix of awe and bewilderment, I stared with wide eyes, searching Kuramochi's attire, the room's layout, and the furniture, wondering just where Shisho had picked up those details. And then I recalled the exchanges up to this point. Come to think of it, the fact that Mr. Kuramochi himself had brought out the tea might have suggested he was living alone right now—though it was also possible his wife had simply been out.
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