1.

  When Guard No-Belt arrived at the Castle of his province—a tall rectangular tower in the Valley of Ancestral Ruins—the sky had just turned to the 8th day of the 1st month of that year.

  He had left his village a week earlier, alongside a dozen other youths identical to himself, none older than sixteen; they were leading a convoy of ox carts laden with tributes for the governor.

  He was called "Guard" by the old custom of creating surnames or nicknames from professions, for his family had earned fame and fortune through institutional violence.

  No-Belt, however, was nothing more than the heir of outdated property and stale legends, and had never wielded a weapon except for sport.

  But now, under the light drizzle of a cloudy afternoon, he received from the army quartermaster a set of uniform, weapons, and flags of the Party and the Homeland.

  In the next tent, a clerk wrote down his name and asked whether he could read and write—"yes, sir!"; whether he could interpret a map—"yes, sir!"; whether he carried the sword of his clan—"yes, sir!"; whether he was skilled with the spear—"yes, sir!"; whether he had been taught archery—"yes, sir!"; whether he was a good rider—"yes, sir!"

  Alongside No-Belt and his neighbors, thousands of other youths from the province's various villages lined up to go through the exact same ritual.

  They gathered among the tents of the military camp at the base of the Castle, greeting each other loudly and celebrating as if it were New Year, stirred by the rhythm of drums and the rehearsal of maneuver commands with bugles.

  They had been brought together because the warlord above would no longer tolerate the outrageous existence of the warlord below. They were being prepared for total war against the enemy.

  The last official smiled with satisfaction and handed No-Belt a medallion inscribed "Second Class" before dismissing him to the barracks.

  It was expected that recruits immediately report to their commanding officers, but No-Belt preferred to spend his time in the Stables.

  He would speak to no one, spending the afternoon avoiding gazes, studying the perimeter and the movement of the patrols.

  Late into the night, he would skillfully avoid the parents of his cousins—those who follow orders without question to one day also earn the surname "Guard"—and leave the barracks with the best mare in the cavalry—he named her Honda.

  By the time the next day lit up, No-Belt was already at the first inn of the neighboring province, fifteen leagues away from any battlefield.

  2.

  Guard Jonmon, father of No-Belt and sole culprit of his unfortunate naming, had summoned his son for a formal briefing days before the heir's departure in compliance with the army's call.

  On that occasion, he did not grant the firstborn permission to speak at any point. Slowly and ceremoniously, he inspected the tea hall, replaced the incense, lit two thick candles and, without making any move to serve drinks, said only:

  “My son…”

  For ten minutes they stared at each other, holding their breath. No-Belt was about to break the silence when the old man continued the monologue he had prepared.

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  “In the old Regime, when our family became Guard, it was forbidden for a samurai to take lives with his sword until he had proven he possessed the heart of a poet. Are you capable of understanding this?”

  It had always been like that in No-Belt’s life: he was a complete stranger to his father, except when Jonmon captured him for a long and tedious moralistic performance.

  “This is the end of your formal instruction. Forgive this tired old man for his failings! I suffer, for I too am responsible for the decline of these times: I was surely incapable of raising either a poet or a samurai! I suffer! Because, despite everything, I hold you in absolute esteem and do not wish to lose you!”

  “Listen, my son, and do not trouble yourself with notions of dishonor, for all the faults are mine and no one else’s!” the old man went on, producing a solitary crocodile tear.

  Guard Jonmon was a proud sophist, fond of a particular style of self-deprecation, false humility, and fatalism, a master of expressing himself with magnificent passive-aggressiveness.

  “When you present yourself to the army, and they ask about your skills, answer positively to everything so that they won’t enroll you in any training. Do not report to any officer! Make free time for yourself!”

  The patriarch also had the habit of over-talking and often getting lost in details irrelevant to his ideas.

  “Inspect the stables and find a short, slender animal, whose shoulders and back are level, with very straight legs and concave hooves! Use the changing of the guards at dawn and flee eastward, where there is peace and young widows! Flee, my son!”

  Thus, the dramatic appeal was meant to do nothing more than offend No-Belt’s pride so that he would do the opposite. No doubt a glowing praise of firstborns who, instead, answer the call of patriotic duty without hesitation would follow.

  “Unless your spirit recoils from infamy, and your destiny is to bring honor to our house! In that case, ignore the weakness of your old father and accept the Family Arms,” he began, as expected—but No-Belt was no longer paying attention.

  The escape plan, laid out for mere dramatic effect, seemed to him in fact an excellent idea.

  3.

  Though the mount bore the brunt of the physical exertion in a furious flight through a moonless night, the journey was not without anguish for the rider.

  Firstly, because the volleys of shots fired blindly from the watchtowers whistled far too close to Honda's and No-Belt’s ears.

  Secondly, because the entire time he sensed apparitions along the roadside: drawn by the wickedness of men, enormous four-tailed foxes sliced through the darkness with glowing red and blue eyes.

  No-Belt shouted frantic commands and nudged Honda’s ribs with his heels to gallop straight and true, evading any risk of interception. But he could not outrun the foxes’ ominous howls, which filled the air with supernatural menace.

  He tore off the badge marked “Second Class” and, with a disdainful gesture, flung it behind to distract the demons—for it is known that foxes find small symbols of authority irresistible.

  He almost threw his sword as well, but restrained himself at the last moment. Wherever fate would take him, he figured, he might still need to defend himself.

  By the time he finally outpaced the hungry phantoms, they had already devoured his surname. It was the Survivor No-Belt—not the Guard—who emerged from the darkness at full gallop.

  Many leagues ahead, under the diffuse light that precedes morning, No-Belt once again saw silhouettes on the road—but this time, they belonged to this world.

  Dozens of women in cold-weather cloaks and headscarves held lit lanterns on the tips of long poles. They waved in No-Belt’s direction, calling out to him.

  They were the widows of Hope Village, waiting near the provincial border to welcome deserters from the war in neighboring lands and guide them straight to the inns.

  “Are there others?” asked No-Belt, dismounting from Honda and giving the life-saving animal a grateful pat.

  “They arrive by the dozens every day!” replied Naomi with a smile, handing the foreigner a flask of cool water.