Gin and Kuro: The Greatest Stories

They held a funeral for Tsunkei immediately—it was a private matter, regardless. How Jukazu and Teiki managed to drag their father back without harming the body, Ozuru didn’t ask.

Tsunkei had a few small scratches, then one gaping wound in his chest; he must have bled out. Ozuru couldn’t decide if it was better or worse than sudden illness, like how their father went—at least Erumi and Yaroko were still alive.

The youngest few didn’t know what was happening—being woken up, asked to dress nice, then brought to the graveyard to stare at their father’s still body. They paid respects—or silently stared, depending on the person—then left him to be cremated. Ozuru decided to return in the evening to watch him be buried; whether or not anyone else joined him would depend on how Jukazu’s coronation went.

Ozuru went through the motions of preparing the second coronation he’s had to manage—first for his brother, now his nephew. The longest part was always carrying the news.

By midday, Ozuru stood next to Jukazu in the opening room. The doors were open, letting in cloudy sunlight; the last few sakura petals of the season flew in, landing near the back next to the portraits of Tsunkei, the king before him, and his wife. A crowd amassed by the door, staying out of the building for no reason but respect, while those living at the palace—the royal family and Seiko—stood around at a distance.

“King Tsunkei came to power twenty-one years ago,” Ozuru told the crowd. “He followed his father’s legacy—closed the gap between royals and nobles, nobles and commoners. It’s from his continued efforts that everyone here can watch history.”

Ozuru looked at Jukazu. “Tell them—the gods and the people—of your intentions. What do you aim to achieve?”

Jukazu’s eyes shone, a kind of ambition that he rarely managed. Something about his movements—his smile, his small sway—made Ozuru wonder if he had been drinking. The vigor in Jukazu’s voice didn’t seem like his.

“Kyuburu and Tsunkei’s reforms were unprecedented,” Jukazu admitted. “There’s no way that I, alone, can surpass it. So I won’t—I’ll shift our focus, from social to economic and militaristic. I’m sure we’ve all heard the rumors of Kuro making alliances, spreading out to kill us all.”

Jukazu raised his head and grinned. “Tsunkei avoided conflict. If Gin was to fall under him, it would be pathetic. But I swear—to Lord Bekin, Lady Aimiki, and the people gathered here—that I’ll fight it. As much as I’m able, so that if we fall, it’ll be glorious. I’ll make innovations, improve our tactics, and make us better than everyone around us. For centuries, even islands across the seas will be talking about Gin! I’ll make sure of it.”

The crowd cheered; Ozuru wondered how long Jukazu had his speech planned. Honestly, a part of him was surprised that he didn’t speak ill of the dead. Although he had yet to manifest any kind of sympathy for his siblings, especially the unusually quiet Teiki.

Seiko, in the very edge of the room, grimaced and leaned back towards the wall. Jukazu bowed towards the crowd, but did it for the gods.

They waited for his dark hair to shimmer, roots first, into the silver-white that the royal family used as a crown. But when Jukazu stood a minute later, there was no change.

Something laughed in the back of his head—and he knew it wasn’t his own due to the genuine amusement. Yaroko held her littlest son closer as he started to sputter off a cry. The crowd whispered.

“Be more earnest,” Ozuru suggested to Jukazu.

His nephew glared at him. “How the hell can I be ‘more earnest?’ More foolish kings were appointed with fewer words!”

The crowd heard, concern sprinkling on the faces of the closest few.

“You’re not doing yourself any favors,” Ozuru hissed.

Maybe Lady Aimiki didn’t like Jukazu’s prayer—historically, she didn’t like her children fighting. With that in mind, he looked at Teiki; he half-cradled his injured arm, avoiding eye contact with his older brother but paying enough attention to notice that Ozuru’s attention shifted.

“Teiki. Come up here.”

The second-eldest prince obeyed, and Jukazu stepped out of the way with a huff. Teiki took his place.

“...If you’ll accept me, Lady Aimiki, I’ll follow my father. I’ll make sure craven like those that killed him are punished.”

Jukazu scoffed, but kept comments to himself for once. Teiki bowed for a full minute, but just like Jukazu, nothing happened.

…That might be an issue.

“Chiki.”

Teiki went back into the royal family, receiving a worried look from his mother. Chiki bowed once he stood next to Ozuru.

“I’ll, um…try to follow Father, too.”

Nothing happened. Ozuru gestured for Kyuru next.

“I’ll make sure no one will be sad. I’ll make sure everyone stays happy.”

He bowed and stood with no change. Ozuru tried to hide his growing fear. Are Lord Bekin and Lady Aimiki absent? Or were four people just unsatisfactory? The crowd’s murmurs only grew.

“Yaroko, bring Dazuki.”

She carried her baby son over, and spoke on his behalf. The little boy was still sniffling. “I’ll raise him well. He’ll make his father proud, I promise.”

Yaroko sat Dazuki on the floor and got down on her hands and knees. It must be hard for her—all the boys were tested, all with no success. There hasn’t even been a case of one person staying without the metaphorical crown.

She didn’t stand until Ozuru gently nudged her, and she avoided facing the crowd as she picked up Dazuki again. She joined Tsujihara Seiko in the corner instead of going back to her daughter.

“Maenomi.” He didn’t have any other choice—he might as well try.

She must not have expected it, but she mustered some elegance and stepped forward with more confidence than she actually had. Jukazu leered and she hesitated, so Ozuru half-pushed his nephew further away. With a grunt, Jukazu finally left the center of the room.

Maenomi had more conviction than Teiki, albeit with a similar message.

“If I could have such an honor,” she said, her voice strong but not loud enough to reach the full crowd, “I would like to build on the policies of my uncle and my grandfather. There are still barriers—between social classes, between people—that very few really understand. Should Lord Bekin and Lady Aimiki give me their blessing, I’ll improve the kingdom with no malice.”

If that plea didn’t reach Lady Aimiki, Ozuru didn’t know what would. Yet Maenomi bowed and stood, with the same result as her brother and cousins before her. The seconds painfully ticked by.

“Rinatsu.”

Maenomi seemed both disappointed and relieved, wordlessly letting her younger cousin take her place.

“I’ll help everyone grow,” Rinatsu promised. “Give proper motivation for artists and facilitate trade so we can experience new cultures.”

She bowed, waited, and stood. She didn’t need to be told it hadn’t worked—noticing the pattern, she ushered Akemi in behind her.

The toddler didn’t have any idea what was happening, so she just bowed like her siblings did with a scared look. She must know that this wasn’t normal, but she didn’t have the words to grasp it. Even Ozuru struggled to explain it.

Ozuru faced the crowd, their confusion and mistrust clear from their murmurs and expressions.

“Lady Aimiki may still be in mourning.” It hasn’t happened before, but he couldn’t think of how else to explain it. “King Tsunkei’s death was sudden—we would all do well to go an extra day to process it. We’ll reconvene tomorrow.”

The crowd dispersed after some prodding; Yukira disappeared after them, inconsiderate, to gather their opinions. Jukazu left in a huff and Teiki went in the other direction; Yaroko left with Seiko and Maenomi in tow, Seiko looking particularly ill; Erumi gathered Rinatsu, Chiki, and Akemi so they could visit their father’s grave again before he was buried.

Ozuru sighed, going alone to his study. He needed to get a few things in order, just in case Lady Aimiki still didn’t answer.