Winter weather is always cold. The biting wind mercilessly strips away the last trace of warmth from the human body. Even icy water running over your palm can feel faintly warm. Kyoto is no exception, but amid the chill there is also a faint sense of fear and deathly silence.
This was already the third victim this month. With a two-meter-long, dark brown cedar bow slung over his shoulder, a short iron sword and an exquisite white jade flute fastened at his waist with a red cord, Minamoto no Hiromasa slowly walked into the narrow alley, hidden in darkness.
The street outside the alley was Kyoto's famous pleasure quarter. Even on a bleak, quiet winter night, it was still bustling with debauchery. Crowds paired off, reciting poetry, drinking wine, and indulging in romance, unaware that the third death of the month had already taken place in a narrow alley not far away.
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