The Silent Sketch and the Otherworldly Girl

The sun hung low behind a soft veil of Osaka haze as Ryunosuke knelt on the tatami floor of his guesthouse room. Beside him lay the cloth-wrapped bundle his mother had entrusted to him before he left—a few small things his father had kept hidden over the years. He had delayed opening it until now.

With careful fingers, he peeled away the wrappings and spread the contents out like a puzzle. A worn handkerchief embroidered with the kanji for "duty." An old photo of his father—young, serious-eyed, leaning against a motorcycle. And tucked in between them, folded neatly, was a slip of paper. A hand-drawn map, sketched in dark pencil.

Ryunosuke stared.

It was a section of Osaka, marked not with a full address, but a loose path that curved around temples and alleys. Near the top, a name was written in a steady, deliberate hand: 賢二 — Kenji.

The name felt familiar. Not from memory, but from something older. A presence that lingered in his father's voice, his silences, and now, in the paper he'd left behind.

Without hesitation, Ryunosuke packed his sketchbook, the note, and his father's watch, slipping out into the late morning chill.

The city changed as he moved through it.

What began as crowded storefronts and buzzing intersections slowly gave way to quieter neighborhoods—old post-war homes pressed shoulder to shoulder, phone wires lacing the sky like taut nerves. He changed train lines twice, transferred to a local route, then finally walked the rest of the way on foot. The air grew calmer here. Older.

Eventually, he reached a narrow lane where time seemed to slow. A canopy of ginkgo trees lined the street, their leaves brushing gold against the rooftops. On one corner stood a low, rectangular building with a tiled roof, faded noren curtains hanging at the doorway.

It wasn't marked by any sign. But Ryunosuke knew. This was it.

He approached slowly, unsure if he should knock or simply enter. The wooden floors creaked gently under his step as he slid open the door. Inside, a single tatami mat led down a short hallway. It smelled faintly of cedar and incense—clean, simple, lived-in.

At the far end, a man stood with his back to him, sweeping the polished dojo floor with steady strokes. His posture was straight, almost martial, despite his white-streaked hair.

Ryunosuke didn't speak yet. Something told him not to.

The man didn't turn. Didn't ask why he was there.

He simply continued sweeping, as though he'd been expecting this moment for a long time.

The soft rhythm of the broom didn't stop when Ryunosuke stepped fully into the dojo. He waited, uncertain if he was intruding, until the man finally paused and set the broom aside with ritual-like care.

"Shoes off," the man said without turning. His voice was deep but calm, like gravel softened by rain.

Ryunosuke obeyed. He stepped out of his sneakers and padded forward in silence. When he looked up, the man had turned to face him.

He was older than Ryunosuke expected—late sixties, maybe even seventies—but his frame was still solid, movements precise. His face was weathered, lined by time and discipline, and his eyes were sharp, deeply set beneath a furrowed brow. He wore a simple indigo gi, sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing wiry arms marked by old scars.

"You came from the city," he said, more statement than question.

Ryunosuke nodded and reached into his bag. He carefully unfolded the map and held it out.

"I found this… in my father's things," he said. "It led me here."

The man's eyes scanned the map. At the sight of the name Kenji, his expression softened. He didn't ask for Ryunosuke's name. He didn't need to.

"So… you're Riku's boy."

"Who?"

"Riku... Or should I say Akito?"

Ryunosuke's breath caught at the sound of his father's name spoken aloud by someone who knew it intimately.

"Yes," he said. "Ryunosuke."

Kenji gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, then gestured for him to sit. There was no formal ceremony—just quiet acceptance, like a long-delayed reunion neither man had expected but both instinctively understood.

They sat cross-legged on the tatami, the quiet between them settling like dust. For a while, Kenji said nothing, simply studying Ryunosuke the way a craftsman might examine raw stone.

"He tried to keep this part of himself from you, didn't he?" Kenji asked.

Ryunosuke nodded slowly. "He never talked about Japan. Or the people he knew here."

Kenji looked away, eyes fixed on the open sliding doors that faced the garden. "I understand why he did..."

"Did you know Akito? My father?"

"Akito Hiyashi Omeo was the man who raised you. But to us… He was Riku Hiyashi—the Dragon of Minami."

There was no resentment in his voice—only memory, worn and fragile.

"He left the family?" Ryunosuke asked carefully.

Kenji's expression didn't change. "No one ever really leaves. But he stepped away. And that meant something."

The wind rustled the bamboo outside. For a long time, neither spoke.

Then Kenji stood and walked to the side of the room. He picked up two small ceramic cups and poured tea from a kettle Ryunosuke hadn't noticed heating near the wall. The scent of roasted barley filled the air.

He handed Ryunosuke a cup without a word and sat back down.

"I was praying that I never had to see you like this," he said, not looking at him. "But I knew you'd come eventually."

The tea was warm, the room still. The silence between Ryunosuke and Kenji didn't feel awkward—more like shared contemplation.

After a time, Kenji set his empty cup aside and stood again. "Come," he said simply. "It would be better if I showed you."

Ryunosuke followed him through a side door and down a short hallway into a smaller, dimly lit room. It smelled of dust and cedar, and the air carried the weight of history. A single overhead light buzzed faintly above.

The walls were lined with simple wooden shelves, some holding scrolls wrapped in twine, others filled with lacquered boxes and faded books. But what caught Ryunosuke's eye were the photographs—black and white, sepia-toned, and a few more recent—tacked neatly to a corkboard above a low desk.

Kenji stepped aside, letting him approach.

Ryunosuke stared.

One photo showed a younger Kenji standing beside a man with strikingly familiar eyes—his father, Riku, at least twenty years younger. Both wore dark suits, standing with others in what looked like a garden behind a shrine. There was formality in the way they stood, but also tension, like men caught between ceremony and vigilance.

"That was the old guard," Kenji said softly. "The heads of what we used to call the Hiyashi Family."

"You were part of it?" Ryunosuke asked, already knowing the answer.

Kenji nodded once. "I served under your father when he became the leader. He wasn't the strongest fighter, but he was the sharpest mind. Always three steps ahead. Always thinking of the next move—especially after the laws changed."

He walked to a cabinet and opened it slowly, revealing a carefully folded piece of black cloth. He pulled it out and opened it on the desk, revealing a faded crest stitched into the center: a coiled dragon encircling a falling blossom.

"The old symbol of the Hiyashi," Kenji said. "Most people wouldn't recognize it anymore. But most of the elderly folks around here will."

Ryunosuke traced a finger over the fabric, feeling the texture of the threadwork. It was worn but unmistakably crafted with care.

"What happened?" he asked.

Kenji took a deep breath and looked toward the window, his voice low.

"The government decided we were a disease. Gangs, organized crime, honor—none of it mattered anymore. They rewrote the laws, erased our name from the streets, shut down every business they could trace back to us."

He paused. "The man who led the charge was a young politician back then. Senator Kanda. Ruthless. Ambitious. Popular. He made a career on the fall of the Yakuza."

"Why?" Ryunosuke asked.

Kenji gave a bitter smile. "Because fear wins elections. And the people were ready to forget we ever existed."

Ryunosuke absorbed it all in silence. His father had never spoken of this. He had painted Japan as peaceful, distant. Never like this.

Kenji placed the cloth bundle in Ryunosuke's hands.

"If anyone still remembers the Dragon of Minami… this will tell them who you are."

Ryunosuke held it carefully, the weight of the family crest pressing against his palms like memory.

Kenji slid the door open to the dojo again and stepped barefoot onto the polished wooden floor. The light filtering through the high windows made the space feel like a quiet temple—empty, sacred.

He gestured toward a wooden rack at the side of the room.

"Pick one."

Ryunosuke followed his gaze to the collection of shinai—bamboo practice swords. Their worn grips and splintered edges spoke of years of training.

He selected one hesitantly, knowing what Kenji's intentions were, and turned back. "I've never done this before."

Kenji retrieved a shinai of his own and took his stance with slow, practiced ease. "Good," he said. "Then you won't try to impress me."

There was no bell to start. No warning. Just movement.

Kenji lunged, a blur of motion. Ryunosuke barely lifted his shinai in time to block, stumbling back on his heels. His arms trembled at the impact.

"Again," Kenji said, already circling.

The second strike was harder. Ryunosuke blocked, but lost balance and fell. The wood cracked against the floor beside him, not on him—measured mercy.

Ryunosuke gritted his teeth and stood.

Again.

He was breathing harder now, sweat forming along his temples. His grip was awkward, his stance uncertain. But he didn't stop.

Kenji came at him a third time. Ryunosuke met the blow and managed to deflect it, barely.

He staggered, then steadied himself.

Again.

There was no need for words. No scolding, no instruction. Just rhythm. Pressure. Fire.

Again.

He fell. He stood. His body ached. His palms were raw. But he kept going.

By the seventh exchange, his lungs burned and his legs shook—but something else filled him. Not pride. Not anger.

Clarity.

When Kenji lunged again, Ryunosuke didn't try to block. He stepped in close, low, and swung upward with everything he had.

The shinai struck Kenji's side—not cleanly, but with enough force to earn a satisfying thwack.

Kenji stepped back, surprised, and lowered his weapon.

Silence filled the dojo.

Ryunosuke stood there, chest rising and falling, eyes locked on the floor, both hands still gripping the sword.

Kenji looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded once.

"You've got his eyes," he said quietly. "And his fire."

The bamboo floor creaked as he turned and placed his shinai back on the rack.

"We'll spar again. When you're ready."

Steam curled gently from the cups of tea resting on the low table between them. Ryunosuke sat with his legs folded beneath him, a towel slung around his neck from the sparring match. His arms were sore. His ribs ached. But the silence around them was warm and earned.

Kenji didn't speak right away. He simply sipped his tea and stared into the courtyard garden, where moss clung to stones and leaves trembled on the breeze.

Eventually, Ryunosuke broke the silence.

"What happened to the rest of them?"

Kenji didn't look at him. "The others?"

Ryunosuke nodded. "The Hiyashi Family. Everyone who followed my father. Everyone like you."

A long breath left Kenji's chest.

"Some vanished," he said quietly. "Some were arrested. Some… tried to hang onto the old ways. Most of them broke under the weight of it."

He turned his tea in his hands.

"But a lot of us… just moved on."

Ryunosuke blinked, surprised by the simplicity of it.

Kenji stood slowly and walked to a small chest along the wall. He pulled out a slim photo album and set it between them. He flipped to the middle.

Inside were moments: a man in a butcher's apron laughing with his kids. A woman kneeling behind a flower stall. A younger Kenji in a loose yukata, smiling with someone Ryunosuke didn't recognize.

"We were more than criminals," Kenji said, running a finger over the glossy surface of the photo.

"We protected our neighborhoods. Looked out for people who had no one. Back then, the cops wouldn't help you unless you had money or connections. We filled that gap. Until we couldn't anymore."

He closed the album. "People only remember the blood."

Ryunosuke sat with that for a moment. The silence this time wasn't heavy. It was respectful.

"I think I'm starting to understand," he said.

Kenji glanced over at him. "Then your journey's finally begun."

The wind outside picked up, rustling the leaves like faint whispers.

Ryunosuke looked down at the cloth bundle in his lap—the Hiyashi crest carefully wrapped inside. It wasn't pride or shame that stirred in him now.

Just purpose.