Historical Mystery Novel: Legend, Chapter 304: The Imperial Rescript

In the capital at night, foreign lights are lit.

The light was of a kind that had never existed in the Edo of the past. Unlike the soft glow of the lanterns that had illuminated the shadows of tiled roofs, it was sharp, white, and somehow cold. Yet, deep within that coldness, there lurked a heat that stirred the hearts of the people.

The Rokumeikan—it was more than just a building; it was an era in itself.

Brick walls and Western-style windows. The high mansard roof pushed up against the night air like a blade cutting through the sky. Carriages lined up in front of the gate, and people dressed in silk gowns and tailcoats were drawn inside one after another.

Among them was the Foreign Minister, Kaoru Inoue.

“It starts here... Japan is changing.”

His low-muttered voice was filled with conviction and a hint of impatience.

His wife, Takeko, standing beside him, nodded quietly.

“You are showing the world, aren't you? The future of this country.”

“Yes. We must make them think. That Japan is no longer barbaric.”

The doors are opened.

At that moment, music poured out. The vibration of strings, the brilliance of brass. The melody of a waltz shook the air. As the circle of dancers began to turn slowly, it was as if a foreign dream were encroaching upon reality.

However, there was someone watching that glittering scene quietly from afar.

It was Emperor Meiji.

“...Is that the Japan of today?”

The voice, leaked to no one in particular, was low and heavy.

An attendant standing by replied timidly.

“Yes. It is to facilitate relations with foreign countries...”

“I know.”

The words were short, but sharply interrupted.

"But, is that Japan?"

Silence fell.

The Emperor's gaze was distant. He was not looking at the dance in the Rokumeikan. He was looking deeper, further—at the very future of this country.

"Becoming strong is different from imitating."

Those words vanished like the wind.

Meanwhile, inside the hall, the heat of the era was swirling.

"Your steps are wrong, it's like this."

"L-like this?"

The instructor took the hand of the young nobleman, whose steps were awkward, and guided him. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the unfamiliar movements.

Watching this, Umeko Tsuda spoke quietly.

"There is no need to rush. This is the same as language. Once you get used to it, you will be able to do it naturally."

"But... will this really be for the good of Japan?"

The question was straightforward.

Umeko lowered her eyes for a moment, as if choosing her words.

"Whether it will be or not, no one knows yet. But—"

She looked up.

"I believe that rather than standing still and doing nothing, we have no choice but to move forward."

The music swelled.

The circle of the dance widened.

Within it, everyone was desperately playing the role of a "new Japan."

However, behind that fervor, another flame was also burning.

"Outrageous..."

Deep within an old-fashioned mansion, an elderly samurai clenches his fists.

"For men and women to embrace in public... is this what they call civilization and enlightenment?"

A young man retorts.

"The times have changed. If we are not recognized by the world, Japan cannot survive."

"Even at the cost of our souls!"

A fierce voice echoes.

Those words were not merely anger. They were a fear of what was being lost.

The night deepens.

The lights of the Rokumeikan grow ever brighter.

The climax of it all will soon arrive.

A masquerade ball hosted by Ito Hirobumi.

People wearing masks dance as different individuals. Aristocrats, bureaucrats, and diplomats all take on temporary personas, and the boundaries become blurred.

" ...It is a strange thing."

Ito, holding a mask, mutters to himself.

"Perhaps people can only truly become free by hiding their faces."

To those words, his wife quietly replies.

"Or perhaps they are simply hiding their true faces."

Ito stopped moving for a moment.

Before long, he slowly put on his mask.

In any case, there is no choice but to move forward.

Music began to play.

The crowd of masks swirled around.

Yet, in the shadow of that splendor, history had begun to move to its next stage.

At the center of politics, a different battle had begun.

If things continue like this, we will split again.

Ito placed his hands on the desk and said quietly.

Under the current system, we cannot unite the nation.

The person sitting across from him asked.

Then, what will you do?

I will create a new form.

His eyes were sharp.

I will consolidate responsibility. To ensure decisions are not delayed.

That vision would eventually become reality.

The birth of the cabinet system.

From this point on, Japan will enter a new form of government.

The declaration was quiet, yet heavy.

The era of the old court nobles ended, and those of samurai descent took the helm of the nation.

The era was changing, surely and steadily.

However—

That change did not bring only blessings.

The light of the Rokumeikan.

The silence of the Emperor.

The anxiety of the people.

As everything intersected and intertwined, modern Japan began to take on a new form.

Like the sky before dawn.

In that ambiguous time where darkness and light mingle.

Before long, a wind would blow.

It was still small, yet it had begun to shake the era with certainty.

Before anyone had even noticed.

The signs of a new storm were approaching, just around the corner.

Tokyo at night carried a somewhat unsettling light. The pale glow of the gas lamps dampened the cobblestones, and the wind carried a mixture of Western perfume and the scent of silk from kimonos. In the name of civilization and enlightenment, the city was transforming into a new shape, but deep within, the old soul was quietly creaking.

Kaoru Inoue stood in the gap between that light and shadow.

The office of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The documents of the treaty proposals piled on his desk felt like heavy fate itself. As he traced the edge of the paper with his finger, he muttered in a low voice.

If things continue like this, Japan will never be equal...

Impatience dwelled in his eyes. The unequal treaties with the Western powers—they were chains binding the pride of the nation of Japan. How great a price would be required to break those chains? Inoue knew. No, he knew too much.

"If we do not concede, we cannot move forward."

Those words were also a blade directed at himself.

However, there were those who rejected that blade.

One day at a cabinet meeting. Amidst the heavy, oppressive atmosphere, Minister of Agriculture and Commerce Tani Tateki broke the silence.

"Lord Inoue, that proposal is... tantamount to selling out Japan's sovereignty."

It was a quiet but sharp voice.

Inoue looked up.

"Lord Tani, a country cannot be protected by ideals alone. Look at reality."

"Reality? What is reality? Is it truly the form of a nation to leave trials to foreigners and rewrite laws in English!"

The air in the room trembled.

Tani took a step forward.

"That is a path that invites a hundred years of disaster for the sake of a temporary appearance!"

Inoue's fist trembled slightly.

"Then I ask you. How can we revise the treaties? With military force? Or by praying?"

Silence.

In that silence, everyone understood. Japan was still weak. If they fought, they would lose. But if they yielded, their soul would be wounded.

In that gap, Inoue had made his decision.

"We must stand on par with the West. To do that, we must first stand on the same playing field."

Tani slowly shook his head.

"No... we are Japan. We do not need to become the West."

Those words were like a resistance against the era itself.

Before long, the debate reached a stalemate, and eventually, it became a rift.

A few days later, Tani attempted to appeal directly to the Emperor.

In the silence of the Imperial Palace, he spoke.

"Your Majesty, this proposal puts the nation in danger."

The Emperor simply listened quietly.

His expression did not change. But that silence was heavy. Tani realized that he would not get an answer here.

And so, he submitted his resignation.

As he left, the look he cast toward Inoue was not one of anger or hatred, but of deep sorrow.

"I entrust this country to you."

Inoue could say nothing.

Soon, public opinion began to turn turbulent. Newspapers lined up criticisms, and the voices of the people grew more intense.

"Traitor!"

"Japan will cease to be Japan!"

The clamor of the streets echoed in Inoue's ears every night.

One night, he stood alone in the garden of the Rokumeikan. Music was playing inside the Western-style building. But outside, it was silent.

He looked up at the sky.

"Is this... a mistake?"

There was no one to answer his question.

However, something within him had begun to crumble.

Before long, he would lose support within the government as well. Even his former comrades were leaving him one by one.

At the final meeting, Inoue said quietly,

“...I am withdrawing the proposal.”

That single sentence signified his defeat.

But at the same time, it was also the end of an era.

He stood up from his seat and left the room without looking at anyone.

The sound of his footsteps echoing down the hallway was strangely loud.

In his back, there remained neither his former confidence nor his pride. There was only the weight of a man alone.

When he stepped outside, a cold wind was blowing.

The streets of Tokyo were as bustling as ever. But to Inoue, those sounds felt distant.

He muttered softly,

“Even so... I must move forward, must I not?”

Those words were not those of a loser.

The times do not stop. No matter how much people try to resist, the current continues.

And within that current, Japan would eventually find a new path.

Inoue’s steps were heavy. Yet, each and every step was a foundation for the future.

The dawn is still far off.

But surely, the eastern sky had begun to turn slightly white.

The night was quietly tearing apart.

Nagatacho, Tokyo. Deep inside the Foreign Minister's official residence, a man stood under the lamplight.
Shigenobu Okuma. His face held a mixture of sharpness and exhaustion that only those who have survived past political upheavals possess.

On the desk lay a treaty draft that had been rewritten over and over. The whiteness of the paper felt cold and inorganic.

“...Again.”

He muttered in a low voice.

After Inoue stepped down, this burden fell to him. It was a path everyone avoided. What lay ahead was not glory, but suspicion, jeers, and loneliness.

Even so, Okuma did not waver.

“I have no choice. If we stop here, Japan will be looked down upon forever.”

His voice was quiet but unwavering.

He knew that treaty revision was not just diplomacy. It was a battle to regain the nation's dignity.

However, the method of that battle was the problem.

One day at a cabinet meeting, the air was tense.

“Restrictions on foreign judges... do you think that alone is enough?”

It was one of the cabinet ministers who asked in a low voice.

Okuma replied immediately.

“We concede where we must. However, we protect what must not be conceded. That is the essence of this proposal.”

“But there are strong voices saying it violates the Constitution.”

“...The Constitution, you say.”

At those words, Okuma's eyes clouded slightly.

The newly enacted constitution. It was the pride of Japan, yet at the same time, it was now becoming his shackle.

"The law protects the nation. However, if the nation perishes, the law also loses its meaning."

Everyone was left speechless.

It was not a matter of logic, but a statement of resolve.

However, the era was still too young to accept that resolve.

Public opinion swayed violently.

"It's unconstitutional!"

"Are you selling our souls to foreign countries!"

The voices of the streets were sharp, cold, and merciless.

One night, Okuma stood alone in the garden. The wind blew. A steam whistle sounded in the distance. It was the sound of civilization.

He looked up at the sky.

"...Am I too late, or too early?"

There is no answer to that question.

Only history moves forward in silence.

Within the Imperial Court, too, anxiety was spreading.

Emperor Meiji listened to the report in silence.

The Chief Chamberlain said,

"The voices calling it unconstitutional are growing louder by the day."

After a moment of silence, the Emperor said in a low voice.

...Be cautious. But do not stop.

Those words were both a command and a prayer.

The nation must move forward. But if it chooses the wrong path, it will suffer deep wounds.

The Emperor, too, stood in that narrow space between.

Before long, the tension reached its limit.

October, the 22nd year of Meiji.

That day, the sky was strangely clear.

Okuma was in a carriage, heading to the official residence. It was a morning like any other. Yet, something was different.

The air in the street felt somehow strained.

It was the next moment.

A flash.

And—a roar.

An impact as if the ground were splitting. His vision turned white, and all sounds faded away.

...!

His body was lifted into the air.

The next thing he felt was a burning pain.

One leg would not move.

No—it was no longer there.

The screams of the people around him echoed in the distance.

The smell of blood brought him back to reality.

Okuma gritted his teeth.

...Is this... the answer...?

His voice was hoarse, but it had not broken.

Before long, he was placed on a stretcher and carried away.

The sky wavered.

The blue blurred.

Amidst it all, he thought.

(Not yet... it is not over yet...)

The news reached the Imperial Palace.

The Emperor stood up.

"Send for a medical visit at once."

His voice was filled with clear emotion.

It was neither anger nor sorrow.

It was a profound sense of crisis, fearing the loss of a pillar of the nation.

Eventually, the treaty revision was called off.

The Kuroda Cabinet resigned en masse.

Okuma, too, left his post.

The era swallowed yet another challenge and moved on.

But the price paid was far too great.

One evening.

Okuma, lying on his sickbed, looked out the window.

The autumn wind was quietly shaking the trees.

He slowly opened his mouth.

"......Japan will become strong."

It was not a message directed at anyone in particular.

Yet, there was conviction in his voice.

"Even if...... no matter what happens to this body of mine......"

Silence.

The wind stops.

The sky is dyed red.

That color resembled the color of blood.

However, at the same time, it was also the beginning of a new night.

History moves forward accompanied by pain.

And upon the shadows of those who bore that pain, a nation eventually stands.

The man known as Okuma Shigenobu became that shadow.

But he has not disappeared.

His will is being surely passed on to the next era.

The night is deep.

But, in the distance, a light was faintly flickering.

The late autumn sky was high, and light tinged with cold air shone sharply upon the streets of Tokyo. The sound of horse-drawn carriages striking the cobblestones echoed like the heartbeat of a new era called modernity. On that day, Japan was quietly, yet surely, about to push open the doors of history.

The Diet—it was a place to fight not with swords, but with words. It was a battlefield where reason and will intersected, not with matchlocks or spears.

Before long, a black-lacquered ceremonial carriage moved slowly forward, and a line of soldiers in formal attire cleared the way. Seated in the center was Emperor Meiji. His expression was serene, yet within him, waves of immeasurable contemplation were surging.

“...At last, this day has come.”

The murmur, directed at no one in particular, dissolved into the cold air.

The moment he stepped into the National Diet Building, the atmosphere changed. High ceilings, imposing pillars, and members of parliament lined up in an orderly fashion. There were no samurai wearing swords there. Yet, the tension possessed a density no different from that of a battlefield.

Standing in the front row was the wily politician with flowing white hair—Hirobumi Ito. And facing him was Nobuyuki Nakajima, a resolute man carrying the voices of the people on his back.

Further back, a man of giant stature quietly surveyed the entire room—Aritomo Yamagata.

Each of them had walked different paths and held different principles, yet they were gathered here in this place now.

“We shall now commence the opening ceremony of the Imperial Diet.”

The voice of the Grand Master of Ceremonies echoed.

As the Emperor took his seat on the throne, everyone in the room bowed their heads in unison. That sight was a symbol of a new order that had not existed in the age of martial arts.

Before long, the Emperor slowly opened his mouth.

“We hereby open the Imperial Diet.”

His voice was low, yet firm.

“The systems of domestic governance are now largely in place, and the time has come to deliberate and determine the path the nation should take, together with our ministers.”

Each and every word caused the air in the room to tremble.

Everyone understood. This was not merely a ceremony. It was a transition from rule by force to rule by deliberation—a transformation of the nation of Japan itself.

The ceremony ended, and the assembly hall suddenly turned chaotic.

"We must cut the budget! The people are exhausted!"

It was a member of the Popular Party who raised his voice.

"Military expansion is an urgent necessity! If we fall behind the great powers, the nation will perish!"

The government's rebuttal pierced through sharply.

Shouts, the sound of desks being pounded, and clashing gazes. The assembly hall was like a stormy sea.

At the center of it all, Yamagata stood with his arms crossed, quietly assessing the situation.

(So this... is the Diet.)

He muttered to himself.

On the battlefield, the enemy is clear. But here, it is different. Both friends and foes are fluid, and the situation can change with a single word.

Before long, one of his close aides, Goto Shojiro, approached him.

"Prime Minister, at this rate, we will not be able to restore order."

"I know."

Yamagata replied in a low voice.

"But if we suppress them by force here, this system will die."

His words were imbued with the resolve not of a warrior, but of a designer of the nation.

Meanwhile, Itagaki Taisuke, the leader of the Popular Party, was also struggling.

"At this rate... the nation will split."

He placed his hand on the desk and quietly closed his eyes.

(Freedom is not just about opposing. It is also the responsibility to support the nation.)

At that moment, a young assemblyman raised his voice.

We are not here to fight!

The room fell silent for an instant.

We are supposed to be here to improve the country!

His words were naive, yet straightforward.

In the silence, the gazes of Yamagata and Itagaki crossed.

Eventually, Yamagata opened his mouth.

...Let us compromise.

That single phrase was not a surrender on the battlefield. It was a decision to protect the nation.

Itagaki also nodded quietly.

...Yes. We cannot let it fall apart here.

Thus, after a fierce battle over the reduction amount, a compromise of 6.5 million yen was found.

It was not a complete victory. But it was not a complete defeat either.

It was the balance called politics that Japan had obtained for the first time.

At night, even after the lights in the assembly hall went out, a lingering tension remained in the city.

A steam whistle blew in the distance.

Railways carry people and goods, and the assembly carries will.

Those two wheels had just begun to turn.

Having returned to the palace, the Emperor gazed quietly at the garden.

As the signs of winter crept in, the withered branches swayed in the wind.

...It has only just begun.

He said it in a voice that no one could hear.

The parliament is not the end. Rather, it is merely the entrance to chaos and trials.

But certainly, Japan has taken a step forward.

Toward a nation that carves out its future with words, not swords.

That journey will be slow, at times lost, and at times full of conflict.

Even so—

The heat and conflict that filled the assembly hall on this day will eventually become history and be passed down.

As the first heartbeat of an era where people move the nation.

The autumn light shone on the tiles of the Imperial Palace like dry gold. The wind was high, and the sky was clear as far as the eye could see, as if it were trying to see through to the future of this country.

Emperor Meiji quietly set down his brush. On the desk lay a document that had been revised many times. It was short. But every single character was heavy enough to carry the future of the nation.

Is this... sufficient?

The voice, muttered as if to himself, trembled slightly. The shape of the nation was set. There was a constitution, and a parliament had been opened. However, that alone was not enough. Unless the hearts of the people were settled, the nation would be nothing more than a castle on sand.

A shadow waiting beyond the shoji screen responded quietly.

With all due respect, these are the words that will become the foundation of our nation.

It was the Confucian scholar Motoda Nagazane. His aged voice held the convictions of many years.

The people are seeking a path. Now is the time for it to be shown.

The Emperor slowly raised his head. His gaze seemed to be looking at some distant era.

The age of the samurai had ended. However, the virtues that the samurai had protected were not things that should be lost. How to bring them to life in a new era—that was the question entrusted to this document.

Meanwhile, in another place, tension was running high.

"At this rate, it is no different from a religious sermon."

It was the legal bureaucrat Kowashi Inoue who declared this in a low voice. Spread out before him was the draft compiled by the Ministry of Education.

"The nation's guidelines should be more concise. They must be words that everyone can understand and that leave no room for doubt."

The bureaucrat sitting opposite him retorted.

"But to speak of virtue, a certain degree of depth is necessary—"

"No."

Inoue interrupted immediately.

"It is not depth. It is universality. Something that does not lean toward any religion or ideology. Yet, something that reaches people's hearts."

His words were sharp, yet calm. He knew the West, and at the same time, he understood the spirit of the East. Based on both, he was attempting to give shape to the nation's morality.

Before long, a new text was being spun by his pen. Stripping away unnecessary ornamentation, it became words that simply and directly pointed to the path of human life.

Several months passed.

At the end of summer, when the sound of cicadas began to fade, the draft was delivered to the Imperial Palace once again.

The Emperor read it through once and quietly closed his eyes.

"...It is not enough."

At those words, the air grew tense.

"Loyalty and filial piety... those are good. But that is not all. How should a person be as a human being? I must show all of that."

Motoda bowed his head deeply.

“I apologize. I will correct it immediately.”

Even as the night deepened, the lamp remained lit. Choosing words, trimming them, and adding more. The process was accompanied by a pain as if shaving away one's own soul.

And then, autumn.

In the clear, crisp air, the moment finally arrived.

October 30, 1890.

The Emperor, despite his illness, appeared in the throne room. His complexion was poor. Yet, his eyes did not waver.

Stepping forward were Prime Minister Aritomo Yamagata and Minister of Education Akimasa Yoshikawa.

“I bestow this upon you.”

The Emperor’s voice was quiet, yet it carried a certain weight.

What Yoshikawa received with both hands was a black-lacquered box. Inside, on paper lined with gold, a single piece was beautifully inscribed.

It was not an order.

It was not a law.

It was merely a wish.

A wish for the hearts of the people who would support the shape of the nation.

“Together with me...”

The Emperor continued his words.

“I want you to walk this path.”

In that moment, everyone present could do nothing but bow their heads.

Before long, this text would spread throughout the country.

In school classrooms. In the morning light, children would stand straight and listen to it. Some might not yet understand all the meanings. Even so, those words would be quietly etched into their hearts.

"Filial to parents..."

The teacher's voice vibrates through the clear air.

In distant farming villages and port towns alike, it is the same.

People sought to find their own way of life in these short sentences.

Some learned sincerity, others learned responsibility. Some found the strength to discipline themselves.

Eventually, the time would come when the world would look toward that country.

Why is this small island nation so strong?

These words would come to be spoken as one of the answers.

However—

At the root of it all, there was only one thing.

It was a heart that cared for the nation.

A cold wind shakes the pines of the Imperial Palace. Time flows on, and new waves will surely come crashing in. Even so, the words spun on this day will remain, quietly but surely, deep within the hearts of the people.

It is the things that cannot be seen that support a nation.

The one who understood this more deeply than anyone else was the Emperor who took up his brush at that time.

The scent of winter still lingered coldly on the cobblestones of the streets. On New Year's Day in the 24th year of Meiji, the Imperial Palace was wrapped in a solemn silence. Yet, beneath that silence, a certain unseen unrest was lurking.

The Emperor finished the New Year's ceremonies as he did every year. His figure maintained its unchanging dignity, but there was a faint sense of unease deep in his chest. The flow of the wind was different than usual. The air was slightly heavy.

That premonition soon became reality.

Influenza—an invisible enemy—crept into the palace, striking down the court ladies, eventually attacking the Empress, and finally reaching the Emperor himself.

The winter light filtering through the shoji screens of the bedchamber was pale and white. The Emperor lay in bed, his eyes closed. Outside, someone walked with hushed footsteps. Reports arrived: the situation in various regions, the progress of government affairs, the movements of the Diet—

"...Let me hear them."

The Emperor said in a raspy voice.

Even in illness, his will did not wane. Rather, it was quietly becoming sharper. There was a resolve within him to bear the massive current of the nation all by himself.

However, fate was even more relentless.

January 22nd—

"Lord Motoda is in critical condition."

When that news arrived, a sharp pain shot through the Emperor's chest.

Motoda Nagazane. The man who was his teacher, his guide, and the foundation of his spirit.

"...Send Baelz. At once."

His voice was quiet, but there was impatience deep within it. Yet, even by sending a doctor and offering every prayer, time would not turn back.

The next day—

Motoda breathed his last.

Upon hearing the news, the Emperor was speechless for a while. The room fell silent, and only the ticking of the clock echoed with unusual intensity.

Before long, the Emperor slowly opened his mouth.

"...Nagazane served well."

That single sentence condensed over twenty years of time.

Motoda's teachings—be loyal, do not be ostentatious, be with the people.

They were no longer just words; they had become the Emperor's own flesh and blood.

However, the sorrow does not end.

February 17th—

"Lord Sanjo Sanetomi is in critical condition."

Upon receiving that report, the Emperor stood up immediately.

"...I am going."

Shaking off the attempts of those around him to stop him, he boarded a carriage. The winter wind stung his cheeks. There were still remnants of snow on the streets.

The Sanjo residence.

Beyond the heavy doors, the room was silent. Sanjo, lying on the floor, was already breathing shallowly.

"Sanjo..."

The Emperor approached. A man with whom he had once shared the burden of governance. A comrade who had overcome an era of hardship.

Sanjo opened his eyes slightly.

"...Your Majesty..."

His voice was weak, but within it lay unwavering loyalty.

"Please forgive the discourtesy of receiving you in such a state..."

The Emperor shook his head.

"It does not matter."

And then, he gave an order on the spot.

"I grant you the First Rank."

It was an exception among exceptions. But formalities held no meaning. What was necessary was to properly honor this man's achievements in this very moment.

The certificate of rank was presented.

Sanjo could not even raise his body, and simply received it with both hands.

The next day, Sanjo passed away.

The funeral procession moved through the city quietly, yet heavily. People lined the streets, bowing their heads deeply. The winter sky was low and gray, as if the era itself were silent.

That year, the Emperor composed a poem.

"I pray that the people may be at peace forever; protect my reign, O Great Deity of Ise."

It was a prayer. A prayer as a human being, wishing for the peace of the nation.

However, as if to test that prayer, further incidents occurred.

May 11th, Otsu.

The afternoon sun illuminated the road. A rickshaw moved slowly. Riding in it was the Russian Tsarevich, Nicholas.

Police officers lined the route, and onlookers watched from a distance.

That was when it happened.

A man suddenly lunged forward.

A blade flashed.

"--!"

The sound of the air tearing.

Nicholas instinctively turned and jumped from the rickshaw. Blood seeped from his forehead.

The surroundings erupted in chaos. Screams, footsteps, confusion.

Tsuda Sanzo--that name would later be etched into history.

The news reached Tokyo in an instant.

The Emperor gripped the telegram.

...I am heading to Kyoto.

There was no hesitation.

Traveling through the night. Darkness flowed past the train window. In the Emperor's heart, there was only one thought.

--I must protect the honor of the nation.

Kyoto, Tokiwa Hotel.

I cannot see you right now.

The Russian minister's words were polite, yet cold.

The Emperor closed his eyes for a moment.

...I understand.

The next morning, the meeting took place.

Even with bandages wrapped around him, Nicholas remained resolute.

I am deeply grateful for Your Majesty's concern.

The Emperor bowed his head.

I truly regret what has happened.

Those words were an apology from the nation itself.

Before long, the time for parting arrived.

Kobe Port. The sea stretched out quietly, and warships could be seen in the distance.

The Emperor and Nicholas walked side by side.

Please, have a safe journey home.

I will not forget Your Majesty's kindness.

A handshake.

In that moment, it was as if two nations had been bound together by an invisible thread.

However, this incident would give rise to even deeper questions.

What does it mean to judge? What is justice?

The government declared, "He must be sentenced to death."

But one man stood in their way.

Kojima Iken.

"I will absolutely not permit an interpretation that contradicts the law."

A quiet voice. Yet, behind it lay an unshakable conviction.

"It is for the sake of the nation."

"It is precisely because it is for the sake of the nation that we must not bend the law."

Words clashed. Ideals collided.

And then, the day of judgment arrived.

The verdict—life imprisonment.

In that moment, the Japanese judiciary stood on its own two feet.

A wind blew.

It was the sound of an era, creaking slightly, yet definitely moving forward.

The Emperor looked up at the sky in silence.

What was lost was great. But even so—

There are things that must be protected.

For that reason, he is here.

Winter is not over yet.

However, far away, the signs of spring were certainly emerging.