Page 83 of Kotori
Afterward, my father had helped bandage the wound personally, had spoken of redemption and second chances while I stood trembling with the weight of what I'd witnessed.
"Every man deserves the opportunity to prove that correction leads to growth," he'd told me later, washing Sato-san's blood from his hands with the same care he used for tea ceremony. "True leadership knows when to show mercy, Kaito. Remember that."
Mercy. My late father had shown this man mercy. Had given him twenty-six years to prove that suffering could teach wisdom, that consequences could inspire loyalty. Had forced his sixteen-year-old son to witness both the brutality and the compassion that leadership demanded.
And here he sits, twenty-six years later, spreading the same poison. Questioning the same authority. Betraying the same trust that my late father had died protecting.
The hurt that crashes through my chest is unexpected, visceral. Not anger—something deeper. Something that tastes like disappointed love and broken faith and the terrible understanding that some people are incapable of learning.
"Twenty-six years ago," I say, my voice carrying across the silent room. "My late father took your finger for betraying clan intelligence to the Ishida family. Do you remember what he told you afterward? What he made his sixteen-year-old son watch as your blood stained the tatami?"
Sato-san's lips move soundlessly.
"He said every man deserves a second chance. That pain could teach what words could not. That you would prove worthyof the mercy he showed you." My voice drops to something intimate and lethal. "I was sixteen years old, Sato-san. Sixteen, watching a grown man scream while my father explained the cost of betrayal. How has that mercy—that lesson burned into my teenage mind—served our family?"
"Matsumoto-sama," Hiroshi starts, finally understanding that this has moved far beyond political maneuvering.
"Silence." The word cuts through his protest. "This man received correction from my late father's hand. Lived with the consequences of his choices. Benefited from twenty-six years of renewed trust and continued service." I lean closer to Sato-san's terrified face. "And how does he repay that generosity? With the same betrayal that cost him his finger the first time. With fabricated evidence to turn the Ishida family against me. With plotting that endangers not just me, but my daughters."
The tanto feels different in my hand now. Not a tool for correction anymore. It is an instrument of final judgment.
"Some lessons," I say, raising the blade, "apparently require permanent implementation."
The steel enters just below his sternum, angled upward through the diaphragm toward his heart with the precision my late father taught me on practice dummies before I was old enough to shave. But this isn't practice. The blade parts muscle and cartilage with wet resistance, slides between ribs with the whisper of metal against bone.
Sato-san's eyes go wide with shock as steel finds its target. Blood bubbles from his lips—dark, arterial, the color of broken promises. His hands flutter toward the wound, fingertips painting crimson streaks across expensive silk before his nervous system accepts what his mind refuses to process.
He topples forward. Blood spreads across expensive tatami mats in expanding pools, seeping into fibers that will carry the stain forever. The metallic scent fills the air, mixing with incenseand terror in a combination that takes me back to that first lesson at sixteen.
Some smells never leave you. Some lessons shape everything that comes after.
The silence that follows is absolute. Even the summer wind seems to pause in the gardens beyond.
I withdraw the tanto and clean it carefully on Sato-san's jacket before returning it to Takeshi.
"Some men learn from mercy," I announce to the room, voice returning to conversational politeness. "Others require more definitive education."
I turn to Hiroshi, who stares at the spreading blood with horror that speaks of finally understanding exactly what kind of man leads this family.
"I apologize for the damage to your tatami mats, Hiroshi-san," I say with perfect courtesy. "I'll arrange for replacement, of course. The finest quality. Consider it a gift. A reminder of today's cultural discussion."
I move to stand over his motionless form, voice dropping to something that carries the weight of generational authority."Sato-san has received his final education," I announce to the room. "The lesson should be clear to everyone present." I turn to address the room, my voice returning to conversational politeness. "My late father believed in second chances. In redemption through suffering. In the wisdom of mercy." I pause, letting the words settle like stones in still water. "But mercy, like respect, must be earned. And some men prove themselves incapable of learning. The penalty for repeat betrayal is death. The penalty for fabricating evidence to incite conflict between families is death. The penalty for endangering my children with your political games is death. Today's lesson was justice delayed, not mercy denied. I trust the distinction is clear to everyone present."
Nods around the room, frantic and immediate.
"Excellent. Takeshi will handle the cleanup. The rest of you will reflect on today's demonstration and share its lessons with anyone who might benefit from understanding the difference between first chances and final chances."
I bow slightly to the assembled advisors—respectful acknowledgment of their continued service, generous forgiveness for their temporary lapse in judgment. "Thank you for this enlightening afternoon. I look forward to our future discussions being far more harmonious."
Thedrivehometakestwenty minutes through mountain roads painted in summer greens. Landscapes that have witnessed centuries of violence, power struggles resolved through steel and determination rather than committee discussion.
My hands remain steady on the wheel despite the blood under my fingernails. The metallic scent of correction lingers in my clothes like expensive cologne.
By the time I reach the compound, the sun is setting behind mountain peaks, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson. Beautiful colors. Peaceful evening. The kind of tranquil scene that speaks of family harmony and proper values maintained. The guards at the gate bow with the deep respect of men who understand exactly what their oyabun is capable of. Word travels fast in our world—by morning, every crime family in Japan will know that Matsumoto authority remains absolute. That questioning it carries consequences beyond political embarrassment.
I park in the private courtyard and sit for a moment, letting the engine cool while I review the afternoon's work. Perfect execution. Clear message. Lasting impression. The kind of education that shapes behavior for generations.
Sato-san is dead. Will never again test the boundaries of mercy, never again mistake second chances for weakness. But more importantly, Hiroshi will never again mistake my patience for vulnerability. The other advisors will remember today every time they consider testing my resolve. Allied families will understand that Matsumoto leadership operates by its own rules.
