The days passed, one after the other, in the sinister purr of prison routine. Aranobu had imposed a mental discipline on himself: every morning, when he woke up, he reviewed the information gleaned from the day before, trying to spot signs of evolution in the organization of the prison, the layout of the guards, or the attitude of the prisoners.
It was more difficult than he had imagined to make useful contacts. The inmates were suspicious. Senzaki, in their memory, was someone impulsive, brutal, not the type to conspire patiently. Aranobu's new behavior was surprising, but not enough to gain trust. The idea of the blow on the head, of the change due to a shock, remained his intimate explanation. For the others, Senzaki may have just been more cautious since his duel. So much the better, it left Aranobu some room for manoeuvre.
One morning, while he was still moving stones in the courtyard, he noticed Shinoda Akemi, the healer, busy bandaging the leg of a prisoner injured in a night incident. Taking advantage of a moment when the guards seemed less vigilant, Aranobu moved a few steps closer. He had an excuse: he was limping slightly, an old bruise on his calf was causing him pain. He stopped at a reasonable distance, as if hesitating, and gave Akemi a furtive glance.
She looked up, gauged him expressionlessly. He noticed the gleam of intelligence in her eyes, this way of reading people without saying a word. But she made no sign, did not invite him to come closer. Just a frown, as if to say: What do you want?
Aranobu understood the message: not here, not now. Too much risk. He bowed his head slightly, as a mute excuse, and then walked away. He had sown a seed: he showed her that he respected her, that he was not going to threaten or upset her. Perhaps, one day, he could speak to her more freely.
Back at his chores, Aranobu noticed an interesting phenomenon. One guard, the one who looked young and nervous, looked uncomfortable. He gave her furtive glances. Was he afraid of Senzaki? Or was he aware of something? Aranobu pretended to ignore him, concentrating on his work.
Later, in the refectory, a murmur ran through the ranks of prisoners. It was said that the Director was preparing a new event, something more spectacular than a simple duel. There was a rumour that two opponents were facing one. Aranobu listened, his soup in his hands. What if he himself was concerned? His blood ran cold at the thought, but he let nothing show.
That night, in his cell, Aranobu hardly slept. He saw the face of his first victim in the arena, the way he had to finish off this man to survive. Would a second time be necessary? If I have to kill again, I will do it. But I have to find a way to take advantage of it. Maybe show a talent, a cunning, that will impress some prisoners? He had to turn these fights into a springboard, a showcase of his abilities. Earn respect through survival and strategy.
The next day the guards came earlier than usual. He was unceremoniously taken out of his cell, retying his wrists with a loose chain, just enough to walk. The one-eyed guard stood there, laughing: "Well, Senzaki, the Director has a surprise for you. No chores today, you have an appointment with the arena. »
Aranobu felt his heart race. He assumed an impassive air, and held the one-eyed man's gaze without blinking. "Hmph," he blurted out, as if he wasn't surprised or scared. The guard sneered and pushed him into the corridors.
As on the first occasion, he passed through this underground hall, where rudimentary weapons and outstretched guards were waiting. The officer was there too, with an evil smile on his lips. "The Director wants a show. You're going to face two opponents this time. They are less strong than the previous one, but more cunning. Try to survive, and maybe you'll win some favor. »
Two opponents. Aranobu felt a cold sweat running down his back. This complicated the situation. He took a deep breath. He needed a plan. With two enemies, if they attacked at the same time, he would quickly be overwhelmed. It was better to isolate one of the two, eliminate it quickly, and then focus on the other. Or create a diversion. But with what weapons?
The officer waved his hand, a henchman approached with a rack. This time, he was offered a short hardwood spear with an iron-tipped tip and a round shield made of metal-reinforced wicker. No knife, no stick. A spear was longer, more useful for keeping opponents at bay. Interesting. Aranobu grabbed the spear, tested its weight. The shield was light, fragile, but better than nothing.
The door of the arena was opened. The same scenery as last time: sand, bleachers in the shadows, a few silent silhouettes. The grey sky above, with no promise of freedom. Aranobu entered, advanced a few steps, and waited. His eyes adjusted to the light. He then saw his opponents, coming out of another door. Two men, smaller than him, but lively. One was holding a curved knife and some kind of whip, the other was armed with a hook stick, something improvised, but potentially dangerous. Their faces were tense, they knew they had to kill or die.
To be strong, but not only. Trick. Aranobu decided to play a comedy. He took a step back, as if hesitating, as if he was less confident than before. The two opponents exchanged glances and smiled, believing it to be a weakness.
The Director gave the signal, in a calm voice: "Begin."
The two men fanned out, trying to take him in a pincer movement. Aranobu moved slowly, pivoting with his spear pointed at one, then at the other, without attacking. He let a tension set in, as if he were looking for an opening. The adversaries drew nearer, the knife whipped the air, the hooked stick felt the sand.
Suddenly, Aranobu feigned hesitation and took a step back, inviting the knife-wielding enemy to dash. The man took the bait, rushed forward, the whip cracking. Aranobu raised his shield, blocking the whip that wrapped around it, and with his right hand, he launched a swift thrust toward the man's thigh. The spear found the flesh, wounding him superficially. The adversary backed away, growling, surprised. Aranobu let go of the shield, which had become useless because it was entwined by the whip, and stepped back, now unprotected. He brandishes the spear with both hands.
The other opponent, seeing the opening, charged. The hook staff whistled, trying to grab Aranobu's leg. He jumped back, barely dodging, and returned fire by spinning, attempting to hit the man's arm. The hook deflects the lance, causing a metal impact. Sparks flew. Aranobu found himself facing two more cautious opponents, each of whom surrounded a flank.
Tactic: divide and conquer. He pretended to attack the man with the whip, this time moving forward resolutely, the spear pointed at his chest. The man panicked slightly, trying to free his whip from the shield abandoned in the sand. Too late, Aranobu knocked. The whip untied, but too slowly. The opponent tried to parry, but the spear pierced his shoulder, eliciting a cry. He let go of the whip, beating the air with his knife in a desperate attempt. Aranobu kneeed him in the stomach, causing him to fall to his knees. For a moment their eyes met. The terrified man, understanding his defeat, tried to beg with his eyes.
Do I have a choice? Aranobu thought. He couldn't show weakness. He removed the spear with a sharp gesture, before bringing it down on the opponent's throat. A muffled gurgle, then the body collapsed. Blood splattered on the sand. A shiver of disgust ran through Aranobu, but he didn't blink. There is no time to weaken. The other enemy was already charging, taking advantage of the moment.
The hook stick attacked at an angle, aiming at the hip. Aranobu spun around, raising the spear diagonally. The hook slipped and gripped the shaft of the spear, trying to snatch it from him. The two men pulled, muscles tense, in a silent tug-of-war. Aranobu gritted his teeth, sank his feet into the sand, and with a sudden movement of his hips, let go of the tension. The hook came off, the opponent lost his balance. It was the moment: Aranobu stabbed the spear into his chest, a sharp and precise blow. The man's eyes widened, coughing up blood, before collapsing in turn.
Silence fell. Two corpses lay at Aranobu's feet, the sand drinking their blood. He raised his head towards the stands, gasping for breath. No cheers, no emotion. Just the Director, impassive, and a few indistinct silhouettes.
"Interesting," said the Director. "Senzaki, you continue to survive. It's... entertaining. »
Aranobu didn't answer. His heart was heavy. Two more lives on his conscience. But he was alive. If he lost, he would have no chance of escaping, of finding his body. He had to hold on. One day, he would take revenge on the Director, and on all those who reveled in this barbarity.
The guards came to get him, retrieving the spear. On the way back, the officer gave him an appreciative look, as if he were admitting the prisoner's competence. That was an asset, Aranobu thought. Being feared, or at least respected, could give him access to information or opportunities.
Back in his cell, he waited, covered in blood, trembling slightly. This time, no one came to give him water or washing things right away. He ran a hand over her face, inwardly enraged. I'm not an animal, I'm not the Senzaki they think I am. I'm Aranobu, and I'm going to turn it around. Promising himself this kept him on his feet, preventing him from sinking into madness.
After an hour, a guard appeared and handed him a bucket of stagnant water. "Clean up, it stinks," he said matter-of-factly. Aranobu thanked inwardly for this moment of "clemency." He rinsed his hands, his chest, his face, at least summarily. The blood flowed onto the floor of the cell, forming a dark puddle. The water wasn't clean, but it was better than nothing. He then nibbled on his ration of dry bread, trying to forget the foul smell.
In the evening, when there was relative silence, the neighbor whispered, "Two, this time, Senzaki? Hey, you're becoming a real machine. Be careful, the Director loves to create increasingly difficult challenges. One day, you'll end up running into someone stronger than you. »
Aranobu responded with a simple growl. He did not want to discuss the details of the massacre. But he resumed his train of thought: If I continue to survive the arena, my reputation will change. Maybe I can approach some prisoners from a new angle. Tell them that I have a plan, that I can help them get out of it if we join forces. But I have to be careful, the spy Makino Eitaro is probably on the prowl, and the neighbor is not necessarily reliable.
Over the next few days, Aranobu sensed a subtle change in the behavior of the other prisoners. During chores, some greeted him with a fearful nod. Others avoided him, as if afraid of attracting the attention of the arena killer. A few murmurs seemed to fear him as much as the guards. This did not help his affairs, he needed allies, not terror. But he could capitalize on that reputation: being the one to survive the ring could also inspire respect, if used well.
One afternoon, while he was still moving stones (stones were inexhaustible in this prison, it seemed), a thin figure approached his back. It was Fujita Naotora, the former tea master. This man had a thin face, piercing eyes. He was sniffling a little, as if he had a cold. Without looking directly at Aranobu, he whispered, barely audible, "Nice feat in the arena. You're progressing, Senzaki. »
Aranobu didn't answer, just raising an eyebrow. Fujita continued, casually, piling up pebbles: "If one day you were looking for... say, a way to make a guard more cooperative... Maybe I could help you. I have recipes for special teas, if you know what I mean. A thin smile crossed his lips.
A shiver ran through Aranobu. That's an interesting offer, a poison or a drug to manipulate a guard? It was dangerous, but potentially useful. He didn't want to compromise too soon. He nodded, barely, "I'm holding back. We'll talk about it later. Then he walked away, as if this conversation had never happened.
Thus, survival in the arena began to bear fruit. They approached him, they offered him little favors. With caution, he could build an information network. Fujita Naotora may not have been reliable, but it was a start. He could also try to approach Akemi, the healer, at an opportune time, showing her that he was not just a bloodthirsty brute, that he had a bigger goal.
Time passed, each day adding a stone to the edifice of his observations. He spotted the moments when the guards seemed the most tired, after long night rounds. He also noted that a contingent of new prisoners sometimes arrived, which required the guards to be more attentive. More prisoners meant more chaos, maybe an opportunity one day.
One evening, luck smiled on him. He was sent to help carry a wounded man to a basic ward, a dimly lit recess, where Akemi worked under the stern eye of a guard. Aranobu, in silence, placed the wounded man on a straw mattress. Akemi gave him a look, without emotion. But as he turned to leave, she said in a low voice, almost inaudible, "The wounds are not all visible." Then she bent over the wounded man, as if nothing had happened.
Aranobu left the room, his heart pounding. She had spoken. An enigmatic sentence. No doubt she meant that the psychological and moral suffering was as real as the wounds. Maybe a way of telling him that she had seen the conflict in him, his internal struggle. Or a warning, that the after-effects of prison were not limited to beatings. In any case, it was a sign that she considered him a thinking being, not just a killer.
Back in his cell, Aranobu meditated on this sentence. He had to find a way to gain the trust of people like Akemi. Maybe by sparing an opponent one day? But this would have attracted the suspicions of the Director. Or by discreetly helping a weak prisoner, without being noticed. If one day he had the opportunity to save someone from a bad fate, he could prove his humanity.
The next day, during the chores, fate offered him an opportunity. A young prisoner, probably Ryō, the idealistic boy, fell while moving too heavy a burden. He collapsed, screaming in pain, his ankle twisted. The nearest guard stepped forward, furious, ready to hit him. The other prisoners, with their heads bowed, waited for the inevitable.
Aranobu, despite the risk, took two steps forward. He placed himself between the guard and Ryō, lowering his head as if to apologize, and said in a hoarse voice, "He won't be able to work anymore, if you break him. I can carry his share, let him breathe. A neutral tone, almost servile, but which suggested a usefulness.
The guard looked at him, surprised. "You, Senzaki, are you meddling in this? Usually, you don't care.
Aranobu shrugged, "A wounded man is worth nothing. I can do his job, no loss for you. He was playing the pragmatism card, not open compassion.
The guard hesitated, then growled, "Very well, but don't be smart. Carry these stones in its place, and you, boy, get up or I'll drag you. »
Ryō, grateful, crawled to sit down, massaging his ankle. Aranobu loaded double the number of stones, gritting his teeth. He was not used to so much weight, but he held his ground, showing himself docile. The guard, satisfied, walked away to give orders elsewhere.
Ryō looked up at Aranobu with moist eyes, whispering, "Thank you..." " in a barely audible voice. Aranobu didn't answer, keeping his mask cold. He went back to carry the stones. But this simple gesture could remain in the boy's memory. One day, the latter would testify that Senzaki was not just a monster. This type of act, repeated, could sow doubt and attract some sympathy.
That same evening, while he was brooding over this episode, Aranobu overheard a whisper in the hallway. He pressed his ear to the bars. Two guards were talking, thinking their voices were covered by the distance: "The Director wants a new show in a few days. He talked about bringing several prisoners together at once, a team fight against a creature... "A creature?" You're kidding. "I don't know, I heard he got a ferocious animal, a tiger, or a strange wolf. Just a rumor. »
Aranobu shuddered. The Director was not satisfied with duels between men. He was thinking of introducing a wild beast into the arena. It promised a massacre. But if it were a collective fight, perhaps the prisoners, forced to cooperate, could forge links. Or, who knows, take advantage of the confusion?
The next day, he looked for Fujita Naotora, the tea master. If he could get a poison to weaken the beast, or distract the guards, that would help. But there was no hurry, we had to wait for an official announcement. The rumors were not a certainty.
That day, he was sent to clean a storage room, a small, dark room, cluttered with old rusty tools. He found a small iron nail, still solid. Silently, he slipped it into his palm, then into his shirt. A derisory weapon, but better than nothing. Start stockpiling small, useful items, he thinks. A nail could be used to unlock a latch or to injure an enemy in an urgent need.
Little by little, Aranobu was composing a mental puzzle. He had a nail, a reputation, a few contacts (Fujita, Akemi, Ryō), information about the rounds, about the structure of the prison, and the certainty that the warden was preparing a special event. If he continued to survive, to gain the trust of a few prisoners, perhaps he would be able to cause enough chaos to escape.
But escape was not the only goal. He also had to find Senzaki, recover his body, restore his true identity. Without this, even if free, he would only be a fugitive in the skin of a criminal. How to find Senzaki? He had to escape first. Then he might track down the impostor. We'll cross that bridge when we get there.
In the evening, he overheard a discussion in a neighboring cell. Prisoners debated the value of mutual aid. One said, "If we united, we might be able to overwhelm the guards." The other replied: "Fool, we are chained, and they are armed. We would all end up killed. An understandable pessimism. Aranobu thought to himself that he should discreetly encourage the idea of a union, of a plan. But not too soon, not too fast.
He fell into a restless sleep, dreaming of Senzaki, of his own lost face, of the blood-soaked arena, and of a green-eyed tiger roaring under a red sky. The next day he continued the same routine, pushing heavy loads, listening to whispers, noting changes. The neighbor was humming an old nursery rhyme, Ryō was still limping, Daigo was lifting wooden beams like straw, Akemi was bandaging a new wound, Fujita was running a cloth over a suspicious container, Kishibe Tsuneko was cursing at the guards, Makino Eitaro was lurking in the shadows, and the Headmaster was impassive and reveling in his power.
Aranobu felt the tension rise in the atmosphere. Everyone was waiting for the sequel, the next "game" of the Director. He was ready. He would face the beast, if necessary, and in this chaos, he might find a breach. Each day that passed was one more step in the spiral of destiny, but also one more step towards lucidity and revolt.
This chapter was not finished, he felt it. The broken shadows of the arena and the prison formed an increasingly complex setting, and in this macabre theater, Aranobu played an unexpected role: that of the condemned man who refused to lower his eyes, who observed, waited, and secretly prepared to break his chains.