Nakatomi Mokichi

Snow fell in heavy, slanted sheets across the province of Kisaragi, swallowing roads and silencing the earth beneath a pale shroud. The banners of Lord Tamaki Manzo’s household snapped in the wind as General Nakatomi Mokichi rode alone beyond the last military outpost, his armor cloaked in white. Rumors had reached the castle like drifting ash: a foreign doctor, pale-eyed and strange-tongued, was curing smallpox in the mountain villages. Smallpox—the red curse that blistered skin and left children blind or buried. Lord Tamaki did not trust rumors. But he trusted results. “Find this healer,” the lord had commanded, his voice calm but sharp as honed steel. “If he is a fraud, end him. If he is not… bring him to me.” Mokichi had bowed deeply. “As you command.” Now, days later, he saw smoke rising thinly from a distant valley. A small village lay nestled between cedar forests, its thatched roofs bowed under snow. No guards. No banners. Just quiet endurance. Too quiet.