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“Sugimoto, Sugimoto?”
Asirpa’s voice seemed to come from far away, breaking through the endless snow in his dream.
Sugimoto opened his eyes to see Asirpa looking at him with slight concern. He instinctively tried to smile to reassure her, only then realizing he had been frowning.
“Are you okay? You were sweating a lot.” She pointed to his forehead.
“I’m fine.” He raised a hand to wipe away the sweat, hesitating before asking, “Asirpa, were you practicing Russian just now?”
“Yes, I was.” She lifted the Russian Everyday Phrases Dictionary in her hand as a gesture. “I was studying vocabulary, waiting for you to wake up so we could have breakfast together.”
So that was it. No wonder he had dreamed of others who spoke Russian, he thought. However, in his dream, Ogata hadn’t spoken; he had only stood with his back to him, silent, his grayish-white cloak almost blending into the snow.
Then he turned, his dark eyes seeming to look at Sugimoto—yet at the same time, it felt as if he was gazing through him, far into the distance.
Sugimoto suddenly wondered: in the dream, did Ogata have both eyes? Or was there only one left?
—————————-
While Asirpa prepared breakfast, Sugimoto efficiently packed up their sleeping bags and arranged the dishes. They were currently staying in an Ainu village near Lake Akan, preparing to head north toward Sakhalin. Since their journey to Tokyo, Asirpa had fully committed herself to preserving Ainu culture, though progress in Hokkaido had been difficult. Many of her people were focused on immediate survival, confined to dwindling reservations or trying to blend into Japanese urban life, with only a few resolute supporters remaining.
To truly achieve cultural preservation, support was needed not only from the Ainu but also from the government and local communities. Additionally, as Hokkaido’s industrial development accelerated, deforestation became a pressing issue. Besides cultural preservation, Asirpa hoped to advocate for forest conservation. While cultural preservation met with passive indifference, forest preservation conflicted directly with economic growth, making mainstream support essential.
Sugimoto could clearly see Asirpa’s maturity developing. Her Russian heritage seemed to be asserting itself as she entered adolescence, and she had grown taller—no longer the small girl he could easily lift with one hand. Where he once looked down to see only the top of her headscarf, now he could meet her bright blue eyes with just a slight tilt of his head. After five years of travel and experience, her thoughts had become more mature. She still aimed to achieve her goals but had learned to harness greater resources and adopt more effective strategies, even if it meant doing things she hadn’t once approved of. She began reaching out to local authorities, particularly in areas like the Daisetsuzan Mountains and Kushiro Marshlands, regions not yet slated for development due to their remoteness. Her Ainu identity, land deeds, and Enomoto’s backing opened doors for her, while Retar’s connections within the military provided valuable assistance. Along the way, she and Sugimoto made many new friends, though these were different from past “companions”—they came from civilian groups or government agencies, had no tattoos, and carried no weapons.
Yet, Sugimoto’s scars sometimes startled these new friends. Though they were quickly drawn to the stories of war behind the scars, Sugimoto often felt a sense of disconnect. Most of them had never experienced war firsthand. In their eyes, he saw something pure and soft that he had long since lost—a peacefulness that didn’t require keeping a gun at the ready or losing sleep to lingering anxieties.
Becoming friends with these people meant stepping into more official settings. At such times, they would look at him apologetically, saying he couldn’t bring his rifle inside. For most negotiations, Asirpa’s presence alone was enough, and Sugimoto would choose to wait outside, either standing guard or wandering nearby.
She also remembered Kirolanke’s words. Since Sakhalin had recently come under Japanese rule, she decided to search for supporters there as well. Japanese settlers were becoming more common on Sakhalin, so only Japanese was necessary to get by, but to engage deeply with the indigenous people and gain local government support, knowledge of Russian was essential. As soon as she decided to head to Sakhalin, Asirpa began studying Russian.
Sugimoto tried to keep up as well, but his progress was far slower than Asirpa’s, who was both younger and already bilingual. He didn’t let it discourage him; knowing he wasn’t a natural at languages, he only hoped not to hold her back. At these times, he admired Tsukishima all the more, who, despite studying Russian for only a short time, spoke with impressive fluency.
Another figure drifted into his mind, one he tried hard to dispel.
He didn’t often think about Ogata, nor did he often dream of him. In his dreams, Ogata was always silent, just as he had been in the unit, his worn cloak draped around him, concealing his expression.
Sugimoto couldn’t understand why, of all the people, of all those who had died, Ogata alone appeared in his dreams.
Perhaps it was because he had died right before his eyes, like Toraji.
But he resisted wondering whether he had grown accustomed to the sight of death.
———————————-
When they received Tanigaki’s telegram, they had just arrived in Abashiri. The wartime period had passed, and with the influx of people moving northward, the city had expanded rapidly. In only five short years, Abashiri was almost unrecognizable from when they had left it. On their way into the city, they passed by Abashiri Prison. The newly appointed warden had not only restored the original cells but also expanded the gates and entrances of the penal institution, making security even tighter than in Inudō’s time. They had to steer clear, taking a detour along the railway.
Because of this, they decided to stay within the city limits to avoid any unnecessary explanations if patrolling soldiers caught them in the forest. Sugimoto accepted the room key with a forced smile under the landlady’s knowing gaze, then pulled a blushing Asirpa away in a hasty retreat, convincing himself that they had chosen only one room to save on rent.
But he knew. And Asirpa knew. They just hadn’t broken through that final, thin wall between them.
In Ainu tradition, a girl was considered an adult around fifteen or sixteen, and by that standard, Asirpa was now a grown woman, with marriage and courtship considered natural. Yet, in Sugimoto’s mind, Asirpa was still that child from years ago—his “companion.” And to Asirpa? Sugimoto could confidently say he was the most important person in her life besides Huci, but was that truly “love”? He wasn’t sure, and Asirpa didn’t seem in a hurry to define it either.
At the very least, until things changed, he would continue to walk beside her.
But for some reason, his fully healed temple still throbbed faintly with pain.
“Tanigaki Nispa and Inkarmat have had their fifth child!” Asirpa waved the telegram joyfully, sharing the good news with Sugimoto.
“Impressive,” Sugimoto nodded in approval. “At this rate, reaching Nihei’s goal doesn’t seem impossible.”
Tanigaki and Inkarmat had settled in Tanigaki’s hometown, and Sugimoto had visited them during his return to Hokkaido from Tokyo. They looked genuinely happy.
“Tanigaki Nispa also mentioned that Tsukishima contacted him recently,” Asirpa continued, “and that he’s encountered some issues. He asked if you could call him back.”
“With Tanigaki?” Sugimoto raised an eyebrow. Why wouldn’t he say it in the telegram?
“Yes. He said you can call anytime this week—it’s not urgent.”
“Alright. We’ll need to stock up in the city anyway, so I’ll make the call. You can wander around nearby, Asirpa.”
“Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
Sugimoto smiled wryly, watching her carefully fold up the telegram and pick up her Russian book again.
After the golden war ended, they’d kept in touch with Tanigaki and Retar, sharing updates. Retar and Tsukishima had spent almost an entire year navigating Tokyo’s central bureaucracy, narrowly managing to keep the 27th Regiment from being disbanded in the wake of Tsurumi’s betrayal. The cost, however, was that the entire regiment was placed on standby in remote Hokkaido, and a deep purge took place within its ranks. Apart from Retar, Tsukishima, and a few other officers, most personnel connected to Tsurumi were dismissed or reassigned. The 7th Division became fragmented and demoralized. Though Retar was promoted steadily as the central government’s trusted candidate—now just a step from brigadier general—Tsukishima remained curiously at the rank of sergeant, serving as Retar’s key lieutenant.
Retar also continued to assist Asirpa with her work. Thanks to his family’s influence and connections within the military, he frequently informed her of any Hokkaido development plans that didn’t breach state secrets. With Hokkaido’s growing industrial and agricultural output, more Japanese from the northern mainland had moved in, leaving the Ainu as a minority on their own land. Forests were also being cleared extensively to support the central economy. With advance knowledge of development plans, the local Ainu could strategize—either negotiate for more protected land or relocate to integrate with Japanese society.
The telegrams from Retar mostly came through Tsukishima, who wrote in Retar’s tone. Tsukishima rarely contacted them personally, which is why Sugimoto felt an inexplicable unease.
But, those with ties to the war had already boarded the train bound for hell. Sugimoto heard that the bodies of Tsurumi and Ogata were never found, yet he didn’t believe he would cross paths with either of them again, at least not with Tsurumi.
As for Ogata.
Sometimes, he couldn’t even recall Ogata’s face, only fragments—distinct features like the cloak, the scar on his cheek, and that rifle he never let go of. Sometimes he even wondered if Ogata had ever truly existed. And whenever these thoughts surfaced, the scar on his temple would pulse in reminder, a gift from Ogata, lurking there like the man himself, waiting to strike.
But he knew Ogata was dead. He had pulled the trigger on the Izumi-no-Kami Kanesada that should have been his, the bullet piercing Ogata’s left eye. The close-range shot had created an open wound that allowed Sugimoto, for an instant, to see right through him to Asirpa’s eyes behind.
Thinking of it now, there was even a strange kind of irony. Hijikata had given him that blade, saying it would prove useful, though perhaps even he hadn’t foreseen it being used like that.
Sugimoto wondered if he still thought of Ogata only out of lingering confusion. For him, Hijikata, and everyone around them, there had always been a reason to keep going—whether driven by ideals or by sheer will to survive. Ogata, too, had once struggled so hard to live, even after losing an eye. So why had he suddenly given up?
Sugimoto’s mind wandered back to that night in Ōtomari, where Ogata, dressed in hospital clothes, galloped down the street. He’d spread his arms wide, almost as if taunting Sugimoto’s bullet to miss him.
Perhaps he had been inviting it. Maybe he saw death as a release—from his missing eye, his worn-out body, the weight of everything that bound him.
He’d never truly understood him. And now he never would.
But maybe that didn’t matter.
Right?
——————————
Sugimoto woke up from his dream once more. Still dazed, he instinctively turned to check on Asirpa, relieved to see her fast asleep, with her enviable ability to stay deeply at rest.
He’d once wondered if Asirpa dreamed as well, to which she’d replied, half-amused and half-offended, that of course she did—but her dreams were few, and rarely realistic. Most often, she dreamed of Retar and Wilk, and sometimes of Shiraishi playing whack-a-mole. “I’m actually a bit jealous of you, Sugimoto,” she had said. “You can see the people you miss in your dreams, like you’re meeting them. Isn’t that a kind of happiness?”
Maybe she was right. If not in dreams, he’d never see Toraji, or Umeko. Even if the dreams were often clouded by the war and destruction, seeing familiar faces felt like a gift. Lately, though, he rarely dreamed of them, likely because Toraji’s wishes had been fulfilled, and Umeko, though still raising her child alone, had the strength to go on. And if she was alive, there was always hope for better things.
So why, then, did Ogata still appear in his dreams?
In this dream, Ogata was silent as ever. The scene seemed to be set somewhere in Hokkaido, though the exact location was hazy. Distant cicadas chirped, dappled sunlight streamed through swaying branches, all signs of a fleeting summer. Summers in Hokkaido were short, just as the warmth seemed to settle in, autumn rains arrived to bring a chill again.
Even in this rare summer, Ogata was cloaked in his hood, as if it could somehow block out the sunlight. He sat on a branch of a towering Sakhalin fir in front of Sugimoto, his rifle slung over his back for once, not in his hands. One leg was bent to support the arm holding binoculars, the other dangled lazily, swinging lightly.
This view of Ogata’s back felt foreign. Sugimoto had rarely seen it. Even when he had been with them, Ogata the sniper always walked behind, maintaining a barely visible distance from the group. Whenever Sugimoto, out of caution, looked back, he’d meet Ogata’s mocking gaze, as if he were aware of Sugimoto’s doubt and didn’t care.
A difficult person to like.
But in this dream, Ogata felt strangely calm. No wind stirred, yet the pine needles swayed gently.
Sugimoto watched him for a moment, then leaned against the same tree and, mirroring Ogata’s posture, bent one leg and closed his eyes.
It wasn’t long before he heard the soft crunch of boots on pine needles. He opened his eyes, unsurprised to see Ogata standing over him, using their difference in position to bridge the gap in height, looking down at him.
With the sun at his back, Sugimoto couldn’t make out Ogata’s expression.
“Really? Pretending to sleep in your own dream—hard to imagine anything more pointless,” Ogata said.
As expected, sarcasm as always.
“It’s my dream; I can do as I like,” Sugimoto replied.
Ogata chuckled softly, a sound that, for once, didn’t seem forced. It almost sounded like a genuine laugh. Had he ever really heard him laugh?
“If it’s your dream, then why am I here?” Ogata’s rifle was conspicuously absent from his back—a side of him Sugimoto had never seen. He was still mulling over that thought when Ogata moved, soundlessly closing the distance between them. Sugimoto didn’t even have time to react—or perhaps he didn’t want to. Ogata’s hand had already reached for the scar on his forehead.
His touch was light, like a breeze, leaving no trace. Just as Sugimoto raised a hand to bat him away, Ogata had already retreated to a safe distance.
“Every time I see that scar, it’s strange to think how the Type 30 rifle can be so non-lethal, considering it went right through your brain. How are you still alive?” Ogata’s head tilted slightly in genuine-seeming curiosity. “Is your brain just so small that the bullet passed through the gap between it and your skull?”
The spot where Ogata’s fingers had brushed felt warm, but for once, it didn’t ache the way it usually did.
“Shut up, you’re already dead. Stop haunting me.”
Ogata let out a laugh, dry and devoid of warmth. He didn’t even bother pointing out the obvious flaw in Sugimoto’s words—it was, after all, his dream. He simply turned away, presenting Sugimoto with an unfamiliar view of his back.
“Forget me, Sugimoto.”
Ogata’s voice seemed to come from far away, stripped of its usual sarcasm, derision, and aloofness—leaving only the voice itself, like a sigh.
“Don’t stay here.”
Sugimoto reached out instinctively. An endless storm from the far east swept over Hokkaido’s fleeting summer, swallowing Ogata in its grasp.
But…
If I forget you, then who will remember you?
———————————
The next day, Sugimoto went out with Asirpa. She was scheduled to meet with a village elder nearby, while Sugimoto headed to the telephone office. He quickly stepped inside, dialing as per the instructions in the telegram. A gentle female voice asked for the transfer code, and soon he heard a familiar voice on the other end.
“Sugimoto! It’s been a while! How have you been? And how’s Asirpa?”
“Alive, and that’s good enough. Asirpa’s doing well too. And you? I heard you have a fifth child now.”
Tanigaki let out a cheerful, slightly embarrassed laugh, and it felt like the old days of their travels together. “Yes, thanks to Inkarmat, the little ones are all healthy.”
“Glad to hear that. So, what was it you mentioned in the telegram?” Sugimoto cut to the chase with a hint of regret. “Not that I don’t want to chat, but phone calls aren’t exactly cheap.”
“Ah, right.” Tanigaki sounded hesitant. “I really hate to bother you, especially with Asirpa being so busy lately. But with five kids, Inkarmat and I are both worn out; we really can’t spare the time.”
“No need for apologies between us. Just tell me what’s going on. Was it something about the army? Since Tsukishima’s involved…”
“Not exactly.” There was a pause, as though Tanigaki were mustering courage. “Tsukishima received a report about a sharpshooter near Hakodate, someone using a Type 38.”
Sugimoto froze as memories flashed rapidly through his mind—the vision of Asirpa’s eyes seen through his wound, a pale figure clad in gray, ever-present rifle, and that unending storm sweeping east from Arthur Port, cold and piercing to the bone.
He forced himself to speak, though his voice came out rough, “He’s dead. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“I know,” Tanigaki’s voice, distorted slightly by the line, sounded distant. “But there’s no one else in the world with marksmanship like his.”
A radiating pain surged from the scar on Sugimoto’s forehead, making it hard to think.
Perhaps sensing Sugimoto’s silence, Tanigaki continued. “Tsukishima has similar concerns, and he hopes I could confirm it. But his and Koito’s men are scattered across Hokkaido and Sakhalin, and most of the remaining forces are ordered to gather in Tokyo before being deployed to the Pacific. He’s simply out of manpower, so he reached out to me, but I…”
“Of course, the children come first,” Sugimoto said, focusing his mind and gripping the phone cord tightly, his nails digging into his palm. But it wasn’t enough. His head felt as if it would split open.
“And,” Tanigaki hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Tsukishima said, if he’s found, not to kill him. Just relay Ogata’s location, and he’ll make sure he disappears from Hokkaido.”
“Hah.” Sugimoto attempted a laugh, but it felt forced. He suddenly understood Ogata’s hollow laughter—the feeling of forcing out an expression that didn’t quite reach the heart. “Is he not afraid I’ll kill him first?”
“Sugimoto,” Tanigaki’s tone softened, and Sugimoto suspected he was using his “talking-to-children” voice. “The gold’s gone. He has no reason to harm Asirpa anymore. And you and Asirpa are starting a new life. You don’t need more blood on your hands.”
A new life, huh?
Asirpa was indeed moving forward, but was he? Sugimoto had thought eating the dried persimmons from his hometown would somehow bring him back to his old self. But it seemed his past still wouldn’t let him go; the ghosts of those days still clung to him—in dreams and in reality.
Or was he the one who couldn’t let go?
“It’s alright if you don’t want to go; I haven’t mentioned it to Tsukishima yet. I’m only asking for your thoughts. I’m sure he’ll find someone.” Tanigaki was as considerate as ever. “I just thought if it really were him, you might prefer to handle it yourself.”
Sugimoto thought back on all that had happened between them—their clashes, the wounds they’d inflicted on each other that would never fully heal. He thought of that quiet image in his dream, Ogata’s unfamiliar back, that rare, almost genuine smile, and the calloused fingers brushing lightly against his scar like a breeze, as gentle as a summer evening.
Would it be different if they met again?
Somewhere in the void, he thought he heard a sigh.
“Alright. I’ll go.” It felt like time had stood still—or maybe only an instant had passed. “But I can’t guarantee I won’t kill him.”
Tanigaki chuckled, the tension in his voice easing. “Thank you, Sugimoto. That’s all I can ask for.”
“There’s just one thing… Koito doesn’t know about this, does he?” Sugimoto added. “It’s usually Koito who contacts us, but this time it was Tsukishima directly.”
“Yes, Tsukishima told me he was reporting directly,” Tanigaki confirmed, pausing before adding, “Tsukishima and Ogata were both early followers of Lieutenant Tsurumi, even back in the Russo-Japanese War, before Koito had even become a lieutenant.”
“Who was it before him?” Sugimoto asked absently.
“Ogata’s half-brother—Lieutenant Yuusaku Hanazawa.”
——————————
It was already noon when Sugimoto reunited with Asirpa. Being in the city, they decided to skip cooking outdoors for once and found an izakaya. It was prime season for horsehair crabs and scallops. The scallops, simply boiled, were already full of flavor, and the shop had added a dash of sake, which brought out a sweet aroma. The remaining crab shells were stuffed with crab meat and roe, then grilled over charcoal. The crab shell sizzled, and the crab oil blended with miso, creating a fragrance that was mouth-watering. Both of them ate heartily, unable to stop.
As they were almost done, Asirpa, still chewing on some crab meat, remembered Sugimoto’s phone call and immediately asked, “Sugimoto, what did Tanigaki Nispa say?”
“Hey, Asirpa, a bit of decorum, please.” Sugimoto naturally handed her a handkerchief, which she took without much care, wiping her oily lips. “It’s fine; I’m still growing and need to eat plenty.”
“Do Ainu people keep growing until they’re eighteen?” Sugimoto teased.
“Of course! Girls have a long growth phase,” she replied, scooping another mouthful of rice. “You still haven’t answered my question, Sugimoto.”
“Ah, Tanigaki and Inkarmat, along with their five kids, are doing well.”
Asirpa paused her eating, her blue eyes meeting his intently, without saying a word.
Sugimoto couldn’t help but sigh. Facing her gaze, he found it hard to lie or keep things hidden.
“Tanigaki said that Tsukishima found signs of a sniper near Hakodate. Since they’re all tied up, he asked if I could go and check it out.” He scratched his head, omitting certain details. Those details probably didn’t matter, he thought, though a pang of guilt tugged at him.
“A sniper? Could it be Hoody?”
The thought had never crossed Sugimoto’s mind, perhaps because he’d subconsciously assumed Hoody had returned to Sakhalin. He hesitated, then added, “Tsukishima said the sniper was using a Type 38. For Hoody, a Russian, to carry a military rifle around Hokkaido would be too conspicuous. It’s unlikely.”
Asirpa seemed to realize something. Although her eyes still resembled the sea, Sugimoto felt a pang of guilt. Why was he concealing this information? Maybe he didn’t want Asirpa to remember Ogata. After all, Ogata had killed her father and tried to kill her (or was it that he wanted her to kill him?). Asirpa was already moving forward with her life; there was no reason to let shadows from the past cling to her.
He tried to convince himself, but then he heard Asirpa’s voice, mature beyond her years.
“You’re going to find him, aren’t you? To find Ogata.”
Her eyes looked at him steadily, without a hint of darkness, as if gazing out over the Okhotsk Sea on a clear day, where sky and water merged into an endless blue. Even saying Ogata’s name seemed natural for her, as though he was merely a figure from their past.
The truth was, she was never the one haunted by the shadows of the past. He was.
“You should go see him.” Before he could speak, Asirpa continued confidently.
“Why?” he asked, his voice strained.
“I don’t know what dreams you’ve been having, Sugimoto, but before you wake up, you’re always murmuring his name.” Her tone was calm, as if she were stating a simple fact.
“You… you never told me that.”
“You never told me either.” Asirpa’s tone was light, with no hint of displeasure. “I figured if Sugimoto didn’t want to talk, he must have his reasons, so I didn’t ask. Even companions have secrets, you know. Just like I’ve never told you that I think your… ‘chicken’ is probably just average.”
“Some secrets are better left unsaid! And, hey, what do you mean by ‘just’? Average is perfectly fine!”
“Ahahahaha!” She laughed openly, purely happy. Whenever she laughed like that, Sugimoto felt she was still the same girl he had first met—even if she was now nearly as tall as him, even with new companions, she was still Asirpa.
“Yes, I dream about him often.” Sugimoto finally summoned the courage to admit it. Once he started, he realized it wasn’t as difficult as he’d thought.
“I dream of Arthur Port, of drifting ice, of Abashiri, or that train, or the towns we traveled through in Hokkaido—from our first meeting in Otaru to the burnt-down tanner’s house, over snow-capped mountains. Or Arthur Port.” The list of places sounded long but was quick to recount. Their intertwined lives hadn’t even spanned a full year. He felt a dull ache in his scar, not sharp but like a tide swelling, threatening to overwhelm him. He buried his face in his hands, trying to ease the pain.
“He’s always there. Maybe even more patient than he used to be. He doesn’t speak or look at me, just stares into the distance.” He tried to recall more and was surprised at how vivid these memories—or were they dreams?—were. Every place they’d been, every argument, every glance, every rage, he remembered it all.
“I… don’t want to dream about him, but he’s always there. And I know it’s my own dream. If I didn’t want him there, he wouldn’t be.”
“So, it seems I want to see him. I suppose I don’t want to forget him.”
“By the way, Sugimoto,” Asirpa looked at him, her expression changing. “What’s your goal for the future?”
He was caught off guard, lowering his hands. “Me? I just want to stay by your side.”
She shook her head, once again showing that maturity beyond her age. “Not that. I mean your own goal—the person you want to become, the things you want to achieve. We talked about this before, remember? Placing your goal in someone else is dangerous. Like trying to stop seasickness in a storm by closing your eyes—instead, you should focus on the horizon.”
“If you don’t have a goal, it’s easy to get swallowed by the past.”
“Sugimoto, you’ve already eaten the dried persimmons from home and become the Sugimoto you used to be. But the pull of the past is strong, isn’t it? It keeps dragging you back. And you keep drifting in it. That’s normal because that’s what you’re used to. Even if it’s painful, it’s a familiar pain. It’s easier to sink into familiar pain than to face the unknown of a new life.”
“So, go find him. Whether he’s alive or not, as long as you want, you can say a proper goodbye.”
Sugimoto looked at Asirpa, her gaze as clear as a mirror. He suddenly felt a surge of emotion, a pressing urge to cry.
“But if I’m not there, what if something dangerous happens…”
Asirpa put on a mock offended look, frowning. “I’m a capable, modern Ainu woman! There’s no problem I can’t handle.”
“And besides, you’ll come back, right? Just like I came back for you.”
“I will.”
——————————-
Once he made up his mind, Sugimoto decided to move swiftly—whether Ogata was in Hakodate or not, his only job was to confirm it, leaving the rest to Tsukishima.
There was no direct train from Abashiri to Hakodate, so the fastest route was to transfer at Asahikawa, then head through Sapporo and finally pass by Goryokaku before arriving in Hakodate. Passing through the headquarters of the 7th Division, Sugimoto had no hesitation in asking Tsukishima to cover his fare, and Tsukishima obliged without complaint. The Hakodate station, which had been destroyed during the war for the gold, had already been rebuilt, and even Goryokaku showed no signs of battle; instead, the government had planted a vast stretch of cherry blossoms, planning to turn it into a park.
Sugimoto sometimes felt the world was changing too fast, as if time slipped by quickly if he wasn’t careful, leaving not a trace of the past behind.
The green wheat fields outside the train window flashed by, and occasionally a Hokkaido deer, startled by the train’s noise, would leap out from the tall bushes, cautiously watching the iron behemoth from a safe distance.
He suddenly had a strange feeling, as if a huge brown bear might climb onto the train again.
Knowing it was just an illusion, he still couldn’t help but glance out the window, looking toward the roof of the train.
There was nothing—just a red-crowned crane, having flown in from the wetlands, flapping its wings as it elegantly ascended on a breeze.
Then, someone tapped on his window with a gun butt.
It was the familiar Type 38 rifle.
He started, and before he could even process the thought, his body had already reacted, leaping up to the roof of the train. The wind whipped his scarf as he faced the figure holding the Type 38 rifle sideways, cocked but not aimed at him.
The figure, clad in the familiar gray cloak, obscured his face, but Sugimoto knew he was wearing that annoyingly smug smile, with dark, steady eyes that seemed to hold infinite depth.
For just a moment, he truly believed Ogata was still alive.
And that’s good enough.
As long as you’re alive, good things can happen. When you’re dead, there’s nothing.
I wish you were still alive.
But he knew this was just another dream.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” Ogata said, taking off his hood. A few strands of hair fell across his face, and he brushed them back with a hand, his tone full of certainty, as if he held the entire world in his grasp.
“I need to settle things.”
“Haha,” came the familiar laugh, indifferent and dismissive. “Still Asirpa’s obedient little pet, I see.”
All sounds suddenly ceased, leaving only the beating of birds’ wings. Sugimoto followed Ogata’s gaze, realizing it wasn’t a red-crowned crane but a few wild ducks wandering aimlessly across the distant sky.
He withdrew his gaze, and somehow Ogata was already in front of him, reaching out to touch his forehead. This time, he didn’t try to dodge.
The touch was soft, unfitting for him, with fingertips that carried a slight coolness, easing the ever-present pain.
What used to be fleeting touches now lingered, even the wind had stilled.
Sugimoto suddenly felt that this might be the last time.
“Are you leaving?” he asked.
Ogata withdrew his hand, tucking it back into his cloak, the hint of a smile gone as he returned to his usual impassive expression, as if nothing mattered to him.
“It’s you who should leave, Sugimoto.”
Sugimoto looked at him—those pure black eyes, long lashes, pale lips and skin. Not those striking features, but rather subtle details he’d never noticed before. He stared, over and over, until the image was etched deep into his memory, until he’d finally made up his mind.
“I’ve decided to forget you.”
Ogata looked at him, a slight smile softening his gaze like never before.
“That’s good.”
Sugimoto was woken up by the conductor tapping his shoulder. He hastily thanked him, gathered his belongings, and got off the train.
Finally arriving in Hakodate, but with no clue where to start, Sugimoto resorted to old methods, going door to door asking questions. It was a stroke of luck—when he inquired at a tailor’s shop, the owner mentioned a hunter who had recently come down from Mt. Hakodate, occasionally trading furs in exchange for food and lodging. The furs he brought had nearly perfect pelts, as the game he brought in was almost always shot through the head, and his manner was so terse and efficient that he left a strong impression.
Right before Sugimoto arrived, this hunter had finished his business and left, apparently heading south toward Cape Tachimachi. Sugimoto thanked the shop owner quickly and hurried out the door.
He felt like he’d been running forever, as if an entire lifetime had passed. After passing a shrine on a hillside, he finally reached the seaside. Following a narrow path up the mountain would lead him to Cape Tachimachi.
The weather was clear. Although it was nearing dusk, the sunlight still carried the warmth of summer. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and visibility was excellent. Looking south toward the Tsugaru Strait, he could even see the distant main island, and beyond it, Tokyo lay further to the south.
At the end of the path, Sugimoto stood still, gazing out to sea. Below, a gentle slope ended in steep cliffs, and the sound of waves gently striking the rocks drifted up from afar.
There was indeed someone on the slope. A fire had already been lit beside a makeshift tent. Though the figure beside the fire was obscured by a hood, they were unmistakably carrying the familiar Type 38 rifle.
That rifle he never parted with—the one he always aimed at Sugimoto, the one he held reversed, pointing at himself as he pulled the trigger with that Izuminokami Kanesada sword. So resolute was he, killing himself as if he were killing an enemy, cold and unhesitating.
Sugimoto thought he could stay calm. It was just a goodbye, just an observation—he could even report directly to Tsukishima without approaching. Yet his heart began to race uncontrollably, his powerful muscles contracting painfully against his chest. His forehead pulsed with radiating pain, and he could barely stand upright.
Just one more look, he told himself, as he drew closer.
However, as he drew within a few dozen meters, Sugimoto sensed something was off. Ogata wasn’t this tall, nor were his shoulders this broad, and he had never had such a healthy complexion. Squinting in the dimming twilight, he had to admit that Asirpa’s intuition was, once again, right. His heartbeat gradually steadied, and he let out a long breath, only then realizing he had been holding it.
Disappointment overwhelmed him. He should’ve known, shouldn’t he? He had witnessed Ogata’s death with his own eyes—why did he keep hoping over and over again?
But after all, it was still an encounter with a companion from the past. He took a deep breath and waved at the figure.
“Hey, Hoody!”
The other man had already noticed his presence a moment earlier and held his rifle in hand, but upon recognizing Sugimoto, he slung it over his shoulder. “Mm-mm!”
“Still can’t speak?”
“Mm-mm.” Henodded, then tilted his head in thought before pulling out a sketchbook and starting to scribble.
“Wait, you didn’t actually learn Japanese, did you?” Sugimoto asked, curious as he moved closer to look at the sketchbook. Amazingly, he was indeed writing in Japanese, though it was clear he only knew the basics of hiragana and katakana, and his writing was awkward and hesitant.
“‘I am Va-shi-li.’ Is that your name, Vasily?”
“Mm-mm!”
“Great! After knowing you for so long, I finally know your name.” Sugimoto chuckled heartily.
Vasily began writing again, and Sugimoto tried to make out the characters. “How are Asirpa and Shiraishi? Asirpa is doing well; she even thought of you not long ago. As for Shiraishi, he’s gone and made himself quite the king in Southeast Asia, enjoying life to the fullest.”
Vasily blinked in surprise but quickly nodded in understanding, recalling Shiraishi’s antics and finding it unsurprising. He asked a few more questions about Tsukishima and Koito, and Sugimoto answered as best as he could.
After some casual conversation, Vasily seemed to realize something was amiss and asked Sugimoto why he was there.
Sugimoto hesitated for a long time, ultimately deciding to tell the truth. After all, Vasily didn’t seem to have any Russian ties anymore, nor any involvement in the gold war, so it felt harmless to share. “Tsukishima mentioned spotting a sniper using a Type 38 near Hakodate and asked me to confirm it.” His tone grew vague near the end, recalling Vasily and Ogata’s rivalry; perhaps Vasily wouldn’t like being compared to him—or might not even remember the man.
Vasily watched him intently, as if absorbing the information, then seemed to come to a realization. He hesitated, pen hovering several times before he finally found the words he wanted.
“He’s already dead. I buried him.”
Vasily remembered. Sugimoto wasn’t the only one who remembered.
He ought to feel relieved; this way, he could look forward without guilt.
But instead, it was like a thorn in his throat.
“I can take you to his grave. It’s nearby.”
“Alright.”
The sun was nearly touching the horizon, casting a golden glow across the sky and sea. Vasily led Sugimoto through the bushes to a cliffside, where a small mound of earth stood at the highest point, marked by a wooden gravestone.
Vasily continued forward, but Sugimoto felt as if his feet were glued to the ground, too heavy to move.
Seeing him standing back, Vasily returned and looked at him. Sugimoto forced himself to turn his head, only now noticing that Vasily’s eyes, much like Asirpa’s, were a very pale, cool color. Yet unlike Asirpa’s blue, his irises held a steely gray that seemed to underscore his identity as a sniper.
When Sugimoto remained unresponsive, Vasily quickly started writing again.
“I found him near the railway. For some reason, I felt he would like the sea.”
Vasily hesitated before continuing, his kanji was rough, with many characters replaced by kana.
“The elevation here provides clear sightlines in all directions, ideal for a sniper.”
Sugimoto summoned all his strength, finally managing to step forward.
The sun had set, leaving layers of color along the horizon, and in the fading light, Sugimoto could see the engraving on the wooden marker.
There were no words—only the carving of a small feline, its ears adorned with tufts of fur, limbs sprawled, whiskers softly drooping, as if it were merely sleeping.
It was a lynx. Near its face, there were two faintly carved scars, almost hidden among the whiskers.
Sugimoto reached up to touch the scarred spot. Though the carvings were shallow, he felt as if his fingertips were being seared. But he continued to stubbornly trace them, just as he had countless times in his dreams, the unfamiliar touch of Ogata’s cool, calloused fingers grazing the scar on his forehead, disappearing like the wind.
His scar had long healed, no longer hurting.
He stood in front of the grave for a very long time, until the colors on the horizon faded into endless darkness. Vasily waited quietly nearby, blending into the shadows.
Only when he could no longer see any trace of the marker did Sugimoto rise.
He was dead. He’d always known. He’d always known but had kept hoping he was still alive.
Now he could finally let go. He could finally forget him.
But as he turned away, he suddenly felt the barrel of a gun on him, just as he had on the snowy fields of Otaru, on the drifting ice in Karafuto, in Abashiri Prison. The black muzzle and the mechanical gaze behind it fixed on him, his adversary breathing slow and deep, pulse steadying, finger resting gently on the trigger, almost caressing a lover’s face. Then, in a single instant, the trigger would be pulled, and even the wind would freeze to guide the bullet into his brow.
He whipped around.
Nothing. No wind. A distant bush shook inexplicably in the quiet.