Page 40 of Kotori

Kaito

I draw back the bowstring of my yumi, feeling the familiar resistance against my fingers.

The ritual of kyudo brings order to my thoughts every morning, the discipline of Japanese archery connecting me to centuries of tradition.

Each movement precise, controlled, deliberate, just as my next actions must be.

The arrow releases with a whisper, striking the target center with satisfying precision.

I lower the bow and breathe deeply, letting the familiar rhythm settle my mind.

But today, kyudo serves a different purpose.

Not meditation or spiritual connection, but calculation.

Planning. The preparation for justice that cannot be delayed any longer.

"The old fox made his move," I murmur to the spirits of my ancestors who watch from the shrine nearby. "Now he learns why sixteen generations of Matsumoto leadership doesn't bow to committee oversight."

Hiroshi overplayed his hand last night. Fabricated evidence to turn the Ishida family against me, questioned my judgment in front of witnesses, attempted to leverage my daughters' futures for his political comfort. The kind of betrayal that demands response. Obliteration.

But it won't be quick. It won't be clean. And it won't be private.

Some lessons require an audience.

I nock another arrow, focusing on the center of the target.

The discipline of kyudo requires emptying the mind of distractions, yet my thoughts remain focused on the coming confrontation.

Each movement—drawing the bow, controlling the breath, releasing the arrow—mirrors the precision with which I must handle the traitors in my organization.

I sense Takeshi's approach before I hear him. He waits respectfully at the edge of the practice area until I lower my bow and acknowledge his presence with a slight nod.

"Early morning for you," I observe, noting the shadows under his eyes. Takeshi rarely sleeps when there's work to be done, a trait we've shared since childhood.

He steps onto the practice ground, bowing slightly before handing me a towel.

A simple gesture that speaks volumes about our relationship—formal in public, but comfortable with these small familiarities when alone.

He's been more brother than subordinate since the day my father hired him twenty years ago.

"The early hours proved useful, Aniki." His voice carries the quiet confidence that has made him my most trusted advisor.

"Three developments since last night. Sato-san accessed our secure financial archives at 2 AM, downloading transaction records from three years ago.

Yamada-san received a late-night visit from someone who matches the description of an Ishida courier.

And Hiroshi-san made several calls to external allies—specific content encrypted, but timing suggests coordination. "

Perfect. Digital forensics confirming exactly what I suspected. The old bastard and his allies are continuing their conspiracy, preparing for extended political warfare. Exactly what I hoped they'd do.

I place the yumi carefully on its stand, the morning practice complete.

Takeshi waits. He's always understood that my clearest thinking comes after kyudo, when my mind is sharpened by the discipline.

"Any specific actions planned?" I ask.

"Informal gathering scheduled for this afternoon. 'Cultural discussion' at Hiroshi-san's private residence. Six confirmed attendees so far." Takeshi's tone carries subtle disapproval for their amateur conspiracy.

"Your thoughts?" I ask, though I already know what he'll say. In twenty years, we've developed an understanding that transcends words. He knows my intentions before I speak them, just as I know his counsel before he offers it.

"They've made their choice, Aniki." His expression remains neutral, but I catch the glint of cold anger in his eyes.

Takeshi takes betrayal personally—especially betrayal directed at me.

Perhaps even more than we would hate betrayal against himself.

"Traditional correction seems inadequate given the circumstances. "

I nod. "Excellent. Inform our friends that I'll be attending uninvited. Ensure appropriate preparations."

"Hai, Aniki." A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "The kind of preparations that send messages?"

"The kind that end conversations permanently."

He bows again, this time deeper. When he straightens, the bond between us is palpable. Twenty years of shared secrets, shared blood, shared purpose. He doesn't need to say what we both know: we must eliminate a threat to our family, and he will ensure nothing goes wrong.

Hiroshi's private residence sits in the historic district of Kyoto, surrounded by gardens that speak of old money and older power. The kind of establishment where retired yakuza advisors gather to discuss philosophy and politics while pretending their hands aren't permanently stained with blood.

Today it becomes a classroom.

I arrive precisely at three o'clock, driving myself in the matte black Lexus that whispers wealth rather than shouting it. No entourage. No obvious weapons. Just a middle-aged businessman paying a respectful visit to family advisors.

The deception is perfect.

The entrance admits me into an atmosphere thick with conspiracy and incense. Six men in formal dress sit around low tables laden with expensive tea service—Hiroshi, Sato-san, Yamada-san, and three others whose loyalty to the old ways has outweighed their survival instincts.

They freeze when I enter. Not with surprise. I'm sure they expected eventual confrontation. But with the sudden understanding that their careful planning has become a trap with themselves as prey.

"Matsumoto-san." Hiroshi rises, offering a bow that's respectful enough to avoid immediate offense. "What an unexpected honor. Please, join our cultural discussion."

Cultural discussion. The euphemism tastes bitter on the summer air.

"Honored advisors," I say, settling onto the offered cushion. "I hope I'm not interrupting important business."

The silence stretches. Each man studies his tea cup with the intensity of someone suddenly uncertain whether the beverage might be poisoned. Only Sato-san maintains eye contact, his weathered face set with the stubborn defiance of someone who's convinced himself he's fighting for righteousness.

"We were discussing family heritage," he says with careful dignity. "The importance of maintaining proper structure during transitional periods."

Transitional periods. Meaning my leadership, my authority, my right to make decisions about my own household.

"Fascinating topic," I agree, accepting tea. "Tell me, what specific concerns require such urgency? Perhaps the forged documents about the Ishida cousin's murder? The ones someone in this room created to incite conflict between our families?"

The question hangs in the air. Yamada-san shifts uncomfortably on his cushion. The other advisors exchange glances that scream of conspiracy and coordination. But Sato-san leans forward with the conviction of someone who's decided martyrdom is preferable to cowardice.

"The heritage of family consultation," he says, voice steady despite the tremor in his hands.

"The wisdom of considering elder counsel when personal choices affect broader stability.

The importance of remembering that oyabun leadership extends beyond individual desires to encompass collective responsibility. "

Perfect. Exactly the opening I've been engineering.

"Individual desires," I repeat thoughtfully, as if considering his words for the first time. "Like my choice of household staff? My daughters' educational arrangements? My decisions about which advisors deserve continued respect?"

"Like the choice to prioritize foreign influence over established values," Sato-san replies, and there it is: the direct challenge I've been waiting for. "To value personal comfort over family honor."

The other men go still. Even Hiroshi looks alarmed at how quickly his ally has escalated beyond careful suggestion into direct accusation.

I set down my tea cup with deliberate precision and smile.

"Sato-san," I say quietly, "are you suggesting that my leadership has become compromised? That generations of Matsumoto authority should be subject to your approval?"

"I'm suggesting," he begins, but I raise one hand and he stops immediately. Old habits die hard, even during attempted rebellion.

"You're suggesting that I lack the wisdom to govern my own household.

That my judgment regarding family matters requires your oversight.

That my authority as oyabun extends only as far as you permit.

" My voice remains perfectly controlled, conversational.

"Is that an accurate summary of your position? "

Sato-san swallows hard, finally beginning to understand the depth of the hole he's dug. "I merely expressed concern—"

"Concern." I taste the word like wine, letting its implications settle on my tongue. "How noble. How generous ." I rise, suddenly towering over the assembled advisors while they remain seated in positions of submission. The psychological advantage is immediate and absolute.

"Takeshi," I call toward the garden entrance.

He appears instantly, silent as shadow. Behind him, six men in dark suits flow into the room. Not obviously threatening—simply present, alert, ready.

The advisors' faces go pale as they realize their discussion has become something else entirely.

"Sato-san has expressed concerns about my leadership," I announce to the room.

"About my judgment. About my authority to make decisions without committee approval.

" I begin walking slowly around the seated advisors, hands clasped behind my back.

"I thought we should address those concerns thoroughly. "

"Matsumoto-san," Hiroshi starts, finally understanding that his political maneuvering has unleashed something beyond his control. "Perhaps we could discuss—"