Aranobu remained like this, leaning against the wall, his gaze plunged into space. The cell was as dark as before, but after the shock of the arena, it seemed to her that the darkness had thickened, becoming almost palpable, like a sheet of soot enveloping her mind. The blood that still stained his shirt had partly dried, sticking the cloth to his skin, exhaling a metallic smell that lifted his heart. He would have liked to wash himself, to purify himself, even if only by rinsing his hands in water, but he had no basin, no way out. Just this merciless jail.
He listened. In the distance, the sound of footsteps, muffled cries, the clatter of chains, a whole funeral orchestra that never stopped. The neighbor said nothing more. Perhaps he had gone back into his thoughts or into a restless sleep. Aranobu would have liked to ask him questions, but how can he do so without arousing suspicion? He had to remain cautious. This neighbor seemed to know Senzaki well, or at least the public image of this criminal. Any discrepancy in his behavior could betray him.
Yet, if he wanted to get out of here, he had to find an ally one day. Someone who would explain to him the unwritten rules of the prison, the names of the jailers, the hours of custody, or past rumors of escape. Without information, he would be nothing more than a pawn tossed around, subject to the good will of the Director.
The thought of the latter made him shudder. That silhouette in the stands, that clear and distant voice... The Director, Sakuraba Tenzō, must have been a formidable character. It was said that he liked to stage suffering, organize fights, manipulate prisoners like puppets. No doubt he enjoyed this absolute power in prison. Aranobu had to find a way to counter him, or at least fool him. But it was a distant goal, and for the moment we had to survive.
A cracking sound was heard, not in the corridor, but in the left wall. A rat, probably. Aranobu jumped in spite of himself. His nervousness was on edge. He cursed his impotence, and the miserable position in which he found himself. Time stretched out, long and cruel. How many hours had passed since his return? It was impossible to tell the time, the light was always low and the corridors were poorly lit.
Finally, after a moment that seemed interminable, footsteps echoed in the corridor. A pale glow danced on the walls: a guard approached, a lantern in his hand. Aranobu sat up, ready to feign indifference.
The guard stopped in front of his cell. He was a different man from the one-eyed man, younger, with a pale, nervous face. He slipped a thin tray through the bars, on which rested a bowl of rotten water and a cake of bread as hard as stone. "Your ration, Senzaki," he said curtly. No insults, just cold neutrality.
Aranobu nodded. He approached slowly, grabbed the bowl and the bread. The water smelled musty, but he took a few sips anyway, to quench his thirst. The bread was almost inedible, but he nibbled on a piece, just enough to calm his knotted stomach. We had to keep our strength.
The guard stood there for a moment, as if hesitating to say something. His eyes swept over Aranobu's figure, no doubt noting the dried blood. Then he went away without a word, his footsteps echoing until they fainted. Aranobu was left alone. He savored this meagre pittance, forcing himself to swallow every mouthful, despite the dryness that scratched his throat. A miserable meal, but it was survival, raw and dishonored survival.
He tried to calm down, to think about what to do next. The Director had said that he would survive one more day. What did that mean? Maybe we'd give him some respite, before another fight in the arena. Or we would use it in another staging. Perhaps he would be sent to help dig trenches, or to participate in a more dangerous chore. In any case, this day of reprieve was a fragile victory. He had to take the opportunity to learn more.
He leaned over the bars and whispered, in a hoarse voice, as if coming out of a wound in his throat, "Hey, neighbor, are you sleeping?" A murmur, very discreet, so as not to alert too many people.
A silence, then a sound of movement in the adjoining cell. "What, Senzaki? Are you getting talkative? The voice was mocking, but not aggressive. A starting point, perhaps.
Aranobu searched for his words. He must not have seemed naïve. "I'm surprised that I made it out of this fight alive. It's been a long time... He left his sentence hanging, hoping that the neighbor would provide details.
The neighbor sneered softly, "How long ago you won a fight? Maybe, you haven't always been lucky. Usually, you rush into the pile and end up biting. He chuckled, as if he was rejoicing at Senzaki's supposed lack of skill.
Aranobu felt a hint of apprehension. So Senzaki was more of a brutal and thoughtless type? However, he had acted with caution, dodging, analyzing. This change had to be justified. "I took a blow to the head, it made me think," he said matter-of-factly, hoping that would be enough.
The neighbor didn't mind: "Hehe, if it can help you survive, so much the better. We're all in the same mess, anyway. His voice softened slightly, as if he approved of the evolution.
Aranobu decided to try to learn more: "Did you know that guy I fought?"
The neighbor shrugged (Aranobu didn't see it, but imagined the gesture): "Not really. A guy who arrived a few weeks ago, from another prison, transferred here for the pleasure of the Director. His name was Gorō, I think. A beefy brainless man, perfect for quick blood. You were lucky, he was strong but not very smart. A sigh. "Here, most of them are only passing through before death. Few really know each other. A fatalistic tone.
Aranobu took note. The prison received prisoners from elsewhere. Perhaps the Director was trafficking in men, an exchange to supply his arenas. "Have you heard any other rumours? About the Director, the prison, the guards? »
The neighbor seemed to hesitate. "What are you looking for, Senzaki? Before, you didn't care about any of that. You played hard, you complained, then you rushed headlong. Why so many questions? Mistrust was in his voice.
Aranobu gnashed his teeth. He had talked too much. He needed a plausible excuse. "Tsk, don't take my head. I realized that I was being bullied. I'd like to understand the rules a little better, to know if it's still possible to piss off the Director without ending up cut up. »
A silence, then a slight sneer. "Ah, you want to play more finely, right? Well, I'm not going to tell you anything specific. The guards sometimes listen, and I don't want to take more hits. But I can give you a piece of advice: observe, Senzaki, observe. The chores, the patrols, the guard tours. Some prisoners whisper things, there are snippets of information to glean. As for the Director... Everyone fears him, but he inevitably has flaws. Nothing is perfect, not even this jail. »
Aranobu held back a sigh of relief. He had not been unmasked. Even if the neighbor remained evasive, it was better than nothing. "Very well," he grumbled. "I'll see what I can do."
The neighbor did not answer, letting the silence fall. Aranobu didn't insist. Every word too much was a risk. He had obtained a semblance of a lead: he had to observe, to learn the workings of the prison. No doubt that in time, he could approach other inmates, such as the healer Akemi, or the colossus Ishimura Daigo. These two seemed important in this hellish microcosm. Akemi healed wounds, which made her potentially useful, and Daigo, by her strength, could be a valuable ally, or at least a stable figure.
Aranobu decided to rest. The fight, the tension, the exchange had exhausted him. He lay down on the floor, curled up as best he could. The cold pierced her bones, but the fatigue soon outweighed the discomfort. He fell into a troubled sleep, haunted by endless nightmares. Shadows passed before his closed eyes, featureless faces, muffled cries. He relived the scene of the murder, the axe almost cutting him in half, the knife stuck in his throat... He woke up several times with a start, but forced himself to dive back in, desperate for rest.
In the morning, or rather at a moment that he guessed was morning thanks to the throbbing sound of the metal gong, the guards returned. He was taken out of his cell in silence, as on the previous day, and led into the inner courtyard. It was a narrow space, surrounded by high walls, where a pale sun struggled to pierce the greyness of the sky. Prisoners, chained in groups of five or six, performed various chores: carrying buckets of water, clearing debris, cleaning cattle troughs. Aranobu looked sideways, looking for a familiar face.
He saw Akemi, the healer, kneeling next to a wounded prisoner, closely watched by a guard. She applied crushed leaves to a wound on her arm. Aranobu noted his gentleness in his gestures, the compassion on his face despite the filth and the ambient fear. He wanted to get closer, but two guards stopped him, sending him instead towards a pile of stones. Apparently, on that day, he was supposed to help move blocks of rock. A forced labor that would exhaust his muscles, already sore.
He set to work without protest, lifting a stone, then another, piling them up in a corner. The blocks were heavy, uneven, sharp, and each movement revived the pain in his ribs, where the opponent's elbow in the arena had left a deep blue. He gritted his teeth, focused on his task, as he glanced around.
He saw Ishimura Daigo, the tattooed colossus, carrying a solid wood beam with disconcerting ease, despite his irons. This man was a force of nature. Aranobu looked at him for a moment, intrigued. Daigo avoided stares, keeping a sad and resigned look, but something in his attitude evoked a past as a noble, or at least honorable, man. One day, perhaps, Aranobu would try to talk to him, to learn more. For now, he was content to memorize everyone's faces and roles.
The guards walked around, spears in hand, barking orders, beating a recalcitrant prisoner here, insulting another there. The atmosphere was heavy, but routinely heavy. All seemed to have become accustomed to the terror, pain and humiliation. That was the most terrible thing: one could get used to hell, become insensible, melt into the mass of the hopeless damned.
Aranobu refused this fate. No, I won't get used to it. I have to keep in mind my goal: to find my true body, to escape, to settle accounts with Senzaki. A shiver of indignation ran through him. No doubt, outside, Senzaki was enjoying his new appearance, manipulating innocent people, sowing chaos. He couldn't let this criminal destroy his life.
After several hours of exhausting work, the prisoners were brought back inside. The corridor was the same, the humidity still present. They were directed to a large hall, a sort of miserable refectory. There they were given clear soup and stale bread. Aranobu sat down at a stone table, wedged between two silent brutes, and drank silently. The soup tasted at all, but at least it warmed his stomach a little.
At the next table, he saw the healer Akemi. She ate slowly, watching over another sick prisoner. Her short hair highlighted the intensity of her gaze. She would sometimes glance around, without stopping at Aranobu, as if she were looking for something. Perhaps she was hoping to catch a glimpse of a friendly face, or to check on the presence of some vulnerable inmates. Aranobu noticed an extreme caution in her way of observing, as if she knew that the slightest too ostentatious sympathy would be noticed by the guards.
After the meal, back to the cells. The guards separated the groups, each returning to his individual or collective dungeon. Aranobu was returned to his jail. Before closing the door, the one-eyed guard looked at him: "Senzaki, the Director liked your show yesterday. He might offer you a second chance soon. Be ready. A sneer. Aranobu said nothing.
A second chance? No doubt a new fight, a new test. The Director gave him the impression of a puppeteer, testing the strings, trying to see how long a prisoner could amuse him before throwing him away.
Aranobu sat in a corner, thinking about the neighbor's words. Observe. To learn. He had to mentally note the shifts of guards, the passages, the key places. During the outing to court, he had seen two guards on a parapet walk, armed with bows. In the refectory, four guards supervised the tables, two at each entrance. In the corridors, others patrolled on a regular basis. There was a logic, an organization.
In addition, he had noticed a heavy wooden door, protected by iron bars, leading to a staircase which, according to the inclination, must have ascended to the upper floors of the prison. Maybe access to the outside? Rumors said that the prison was located on an island, surrounded by icy waters, which would make any escape difficult. It would take plans, accomplices, tools, and above all perfect timing.
He was not yet ready to talk to Akemi or Daigo, or to other prisoners. First of all, he had to strengthen his coverage. To continue to play the role of a Senzaki who has become more thoughtful, but not too different. Maybe feigning a long-term head injury, claiming to have partially lost his memory, which would justify his questions. That could be credible. Blows received in the arena, or a previous hit, could have altered his personality. The conditions in the prison were so extreme that no one would be surprised by changes in behaviour.
Again night fell, or at least deeper darkness set in, a sign that the cycle of day in the prison was coming to an end. The guards passed less frequently, the prison plunged into a sort of morbid torpor. Aranobu, sitting against the wall, thought back to his previous life. His original face, his slender hands, his elegant kimono, the tranquility of his home, the taste of tea, the softness of a ray of sunshine on the parquet floor. It all seemed so far away, like a vanished dream.
He clenched his fists. No, he was not to give in to nostalgia. He didn't have the luxury of collapsing, not now. The rage of injustice gave him the strength to stand upright, not to sink. Slowly, he would rebuild a strategy. He would learn to control this muscular body, to fight more effectively. If he were to survive the arena once or twice, he would prove formidable enough to arouse the interest of some prisoners, perhaps earn their respect or curiosity. It was dangerous, but necessary.
Suddenly, a distant cry broke the silence. A prisoner somewhere was screaming, beaten or tortured. The echo echoed through the corridors, reverberating all the way to Aranobu's cell. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the sound. Madness was lurking, ready to devour the minds of the weakest. It was necessary to remain strong, hermetic, at least in appearance.
The night passed like this, punctuated by moans and indistinct noises. Aranobu found a fragmented sleep, without dreams, only a series of dark moments interspersed with micro-awakenings. The next morning, the same ritual: the gong, the guards, the exit to the courtyard, the chore. That day, he had to clean a sump, handling a bucket of fetid water, inhaling pestilential smells until he was nauseous. But he did not complain. Every day was a burden, a test, and he had to survive at all costs.
He recognized some faces, began to memorize whispered names. One prisoner was named Ryō, a young idealist who was mistakenly locked up, according to what he heard from two other inmates. Another, Makino Eitaro, was a spy, suspected of denouncing his comrades to the guards. Kishibe Tsuneko, a woman-at-arms, locked up for a forbidden duel, was arguing with a grumbling giant. Fujita Naotora, a former tea master, with a bright gaze and a discreet figure, was churning a suspicious liquid in a corner, under the watch of a distracted guard. All these names, these silhouettes, formed a complex mosaic. They were all stuck here, pieces of a cruel puzzle.
Aranobu understood that the prison was a microcosm, a world unto itself, with its unspoken laws, its fragile alliances, its deadly hatreds. The Director played with them like pawns, but could the pawns rebel? It would take time, cunning, and the perfect opportunity. In the meantime, Aranobu kept a low profile.
Towards the end of the day, he was sent back to the refectory. There he saw a different, younger guard looking worried. The latter was constantly looking around him, as if he feared to be surprised. Aranobu, curious, tried to pick up a clue. The guard had a bloodstain on his sleeve, and his hands were shaking. Had he participated in an execution? Or received a warning from the Director? The guards also seemed to live in fear of their superior. This prison was not only a hell for the inmates, it also crushed the men-at-arms.
After the meal, the prisoners were taken back to their cells. On the way, Aranobu passed Akemi, who was whispering something to a feverish prisoner. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, without lingering, but Aranobu detected a flash of interest. Had she recognized that Senzaki was behaving differently? Maybe. He should try a discreet contact later, if the opportunity arises.
Back in his jail, Aranobu let out a sigh. The days were similar, punctuated by forced labor, foul food, darkness, fear. This monotony, mixed with brutality, was a weapon of the Director to break wills. He felt it. Without hope, men lost all desire to fight, abandoning their free will.
That is why he had to struggle internally, never stop planning. He trained mentally, miming fighting gestures in his head, reviewing his duel in the arena, trying to improve his technique. If another fight were to come, he would be more effective, less hesitant. He had to prove that he was not at the mercy of chance. Even without a sword, he could learn to handle that heavy knife, that stick, or any other weapon that was given to him.
Night came, bringing its share of heavy silence. Aranobu thought back to the neighbor's words. "Observe," he said. That's what he did. Every day, he collected details. He noted the posture of the guards, their approximate number, the bolts on the doors, the location of the racks of arms in the hall. A plan was taking shape in his mind, embryonic. If he could form a small group of reliable inmates, they might try something. But who was reliable? Makino Eitaro, the spy, was to be excluded. Could Ryō, the young idealist, be useful, or too naïve? Kishibe Tsuneko seemed unstable. Fujita Naotora, the tea master, possessed strange knowledge, perhaps in poisons, which could be useful. Daigo, the colossus, could provide the brute force, but you would have to earn his trust. Akemi, the healer, would provide care and perhaps information.
But before dreaming of an escape, Aranobu had to consolidate his position. Without a show of strength, without showing that he could survive the arena more than once, no one would take him seriously. Paradoxically, he had to agree to play the Director's game, at least temporarily.
The next day he was roused from sleep by an unusual racket. Guards were screaming, chains were rattling. The cells were opened in a hurry, as if for an urgent gathering. Aranobu sat up, intrigued. A guard rushed by: "All in the courtyard, immediately!"
When he was taken out of his cell, he saw that the inmates were gathered en masse, under good guard. Had the Director decided to organize a new demonstration? The prisoners' faces were even more closed than usual. Many seemed terrified. Aranobu gritted his teeth. Would he have to fight again?
In the courtyard, the prisoners were lined up in several rows. The guards were nervous, visibly tense. The Director was there, standing on an improvised platform, dressed in a long dark coat. A lacquered wooden mask partially covered his face, revealing only piercing eyes. Next to him was the officer that Aranobu knew, the man with the cruel smile.
The Director raised his hand. A dead silence fell.
"My dear guests," he said, in a clear voice. "Yesterday evening, an attempt to flee took place. A prisoner tried to escape through the sewers beneath the prison, aided by a corrupt guard. They were captured, of course. »
A murmur ran through the assembly. Aranobu frowned. Had anyone ever tried to escape? Interesting, even if it was a failure. The Director snapped his fingers, and two guards dragged before the crowd an unrecognizable body, bloodied and bruised. It was probably the prisoner who tried to flee. A shock went through the inmates. Aranobu looked away, disgusted, but he couldn't help but notice the horror of the scene. The Director had just shown them the fate of failed escapes.
"This is what happens to those who defy my rules," the Headmaster continued, impassive. "Let this serve as a lesson to you."
The body was thrown on the ground, like an old rag, in front of the prisoners. Some closed their eyes, others gagged. A thick silence fell, only disturbed by the wind and a few stifled sobs.
The Director waved, and the officer raised his voice, "Now get back to your duties. But never forget: no escape is possible here, you are at the mercy of our will. »
The guards pushed the prisoners back to their chores. Aranobu, with a heavy heart, engraved this scene in his memory. The terror was total. However, this failed escape attempt provided him with crucial information: there was at least one passage, sewers under the prison. Maybe it was a lead for later. We would have to understand what had happened, who this unfortunate man was, and how he had corrupted a guard. This proved that there were weaknesses in the system, even if they were almost impossible to exploit.
Back to his chores, Aranobu lifted stones without a word. He was more determined than ever. Escape would be difficult, almost suicidal, but not impossible. The Director tried to sow despair, but Aranobu did not accept this defeat.
In the days that followed, the routine resumed. Aranobu alternated between the courtyard, the dining hall, and the cell, observing, memorizing, and mentally noting every detail. He noticed that Akemi sometimes moved among the wounded prisoners, always watched, but tolerated because she maintained a semblance of health among the inmates, avoiding epidemics. He overheard a look between Akemi and Daigo, a silent exchange that seemed to signify an unspoken understanding. Perhaps there were already links between some prisoners, a sort of discreet network.
Later, Aranobu had the opportunity to run into the young Ryō, the idealist, when they were assigned to the same pile of stones. Ryō looked exhausted, but his gaze was less empty than the others'. Aranobu took advantage of a moment of inattention from the guards to whisper, "Do you know why they locked you up here?"
Ryō jumped, surprised that another inmate was talking to him. "Me... It's a mistake. I was wrongly accused of conspiracy. I'm innocent. His voice was trembling, he was afraid to speak. Aranobu took pity on him. He just nodded his head in silence, so as not to arouse suspicion. An innocent man, caught up in this nightmare. This could be an easy ally to convince when the time comes.
The days passed, mingling in a long series of sufferings. Aranobu waited apprehensively for the moment when the Director would call him back into the arena. He had to prove, in his next fight, that he was still alive and dangerous. This would perhaps allow him to attract the curiosity of certain prisoners, to slowly weave a web. But in the meantime he remained patient, swallowing his disgust, suppressing his horror, playing the part of the impassive Senzaki.
By dint of observing, he began to recognize a pattern in the guards' rounds, the meal times, the way the prison was segmented into blocks. He guessed that in order to escape he would have to reach a certain corridor, then a guarded door, and finally exit into the larger outer courtyard, which led perhaps to a harbour or a cliff. He didn't know, but he imagined a way out. Everything, even the worst, was better than rotting here until execution.
One evening, while he was dozing, he heard the neighbor whisper something, like a mantra. He listened. The neighbor repeated a name: "Harukaze... Harukaze... Maybe it was a name from the past, a memory, or the name of someone once dear to me. Aranobu refrained from interrupting, respecting this moment of fragile intimacy in the darkness. Thus, everyone carried their burdens. He bore the burden of a stolen identity, of an injustice to be repaired.
Time passed, mercilessly, and Aranobu gradually felt a new determination emerge within him. He was no longer just a victim, he became a strategist in the shadows, a sharp mind looking for the flaw. And the day would come when the arena would become his theater of affirmation, not to please the Director, but to win the attention of those who, in this mass of the damned, might rally to a cause: flight, freedom, and revenge.