Although Harano was only a sophomore in college, he had experienced hardship since childhood—he wasn't the kind of naive university student with eyes so clear as to be foolish. Even though he was momentarily shocked by the suspicion that he had traveled through time, he could still keep calm and collected—after all, he now carried two lives on his shoulders: his own, and his foolish son's. Even if only for his son's sake, he had to stay steady and composed, and handle everything correctly!
His brain's CPU spun rapidly as he analyzed the situation in front of him. He neither answered Jiubei's words nor paid attention to Jiubei's hospitality. He simply swept his gaze around the group, only speaking again when those farther away all bowed their heads. Harano turned back to Jiubei and asked in reply, "What are you all doing?"
Jiubei found it quite difficult to understand him and looked up, surprised. "Sir, what did you say?"
Harano slowed down his speech, spitting out the words one by one as he repeated the question.
This time, after some guessing and deduction, Jiubei managed to more or less make it out, and respectfully bowed his head again. He too spoke slowly: "Our village's servant, Jiulang, is gravely ill, and we lowly people are conducting a rite to pray to the gods."
"Sick?"
Harano also tried to work it out, relying on the few words he could catch to get a rough idea of the situation. He vaguely recalled hearing about this kind of Japanese folk custom when visiting the archives in Aichi Prefecture.
In ancient Japan, there was a severe lack of medicine and doctors, especially in rural areas. Some villagers lived their entire lives without ever seeing a physician. When they fell ill or were injured, they just had to grit their teeth and bear it. Over time, the custom of god-invoking rites evolved—if someone got sick and survived, that was fortunate, but if their illness became so severe that they began to lose consciousness (as if the soul were departing), the villagers would carry that person into the nearby mountains or wilderness, beseeching the mountain gods—or any other gods—to drive out the evil spirit of illness, reclaim the soul, and heal the body.
Usually, the sick person would remain alone in the mountains or wilds for the night, making it easier for the gods to manifest miracles. Everyone else would return in the morning to check on them. If the patient woke, they'd happily carry him home; if he died, the gods had taken him, so they'd bury him on the spot and everyone else would return to daily life as before.
This was undoubtedly a feudal superstition, entirely lacking scientific basis. Unless someone was remarkably tough, almost everyone died. But reportedly, it was considered a kind of survival strategy at the time—if the patient was bound to die, better sooner than later, so as not to drag down the whole family. Moreover, sending the patient away from the village could also prevent the spread of disease to the more physically vulnerable women and children, protecting the village's future to some extent.
Harano had a handle on the situation now. He patted the hiking backpack on his chest and pondered for a moment, then spoke to Jiubei: "Take me over to have a look."
He could turn and leave now; at most the villagers would think he was a bit odd and probably wouldn't hunt him down. But the food and water he carried would last him only two or three days in the mountains at best, and since Meng Ziqi was unconscious, he needed a safe and warm environment to recover. Sooner or later, they'd have to face people. Dealing with seemingly decent and law-abiding villagers was definitely preferable to not knowing what sort of criminals they might run into later.
The gentleman wanted to see the patient, so of course Jiubei had no objections and immediately led the way.
Harano set Meng Ziqi down and looked at this unlucky fellow abandoned by his own villagers, noting he looked to be in his forties, short but solidly built, wearing plain clothes with a blue six-circle short haori identical to Jiubei's draped over him. His hair was still thick, not bald, tied up in a topknot atop his head.
As for the illness…
Harano leaned in and held his breath to observe the man's face carefully. He also flipped his eyelids and checked his forehead temperature with the back of his hand. He relaxed a little—it didn't seem to be anything catastrophic, just a rather serious cold. The man was in a confused stupor, rambling unintelligibly—clearly, he was simply delirious from high fever.
He motioned for Jiubei and the others to step back a few paces, then reached into his hiking pack for the first-aid kit, took out an emergency fever tablet, and found an oral antibiotic. Figuring that people in ancient times were likely not resistant to medicine, he decided to use them sparingly, breaking them in half, then feeding the medicine to Jiulang. He turned to Jiubei and said, "Got any water? Give him some water and help him swallow the medicine."
Jiubei wasn't surprised that Harano could treat illness. He'd spent more than ten years in Hosokawa Castle and knew that many Samurai were well versed in Sinology—and that included medicine. Quite a few Samurai would gather herbs and prepare various remedies for themselves, household retainers, clan children, the Lang Faction, or friends when they fell ill.
Earlier, when Jiulang suddenly became feverish and collapsed, Jiubei had gone to Hosokawa Castle to request medicine from the Maeda Family. The family elder, Okumura Iefuku, bestowed a bundle of odd grasses, leaves, and roots. After drinking them for three days, Jiulang's condition only worsened, nearly resulting in death. At this point, trying something else couldn't hurt.
After all, it's just treating a dead horse as if it were alive!
He immediately half-helped Jiulang up, then waved his hand and shouted something in dialect. A middle-aged woman with a look of deep sorrow brought over a section of bamboo tube, unplugged the stopper, and gave water to help Jiulang swallow the pills. Harano also stuck a physical cooling gel patch to Jiulang's forehead.
The scene quieted down. Harano tidied up his hiking backpack, checked on his "foolish son" Meng Ziqi, then leaned against a boulder to patiently wait and recover his stamina, all the while keeping his hand within easy reach of his electric stick.
Jiubei wasn't sure whether he should continue praying to the mountain gods. He curiously examined the cooling patch on Jiulang's forehead, then left Jiulang's care to the woman and cautiously probed Harano: "So, sir, now…"
"Let's wait a bit," Harano replied softly. With fever medicine, antibiotics, and a cooling patch, in theory, the fever should subside in half an hour, or at least the body temperature should drop enough to prevent brain damage.
The sky gradually darkened. Jiubei directed the villagers to light torches, probably fueled by soybean oil. The air instantly filled with a faint, fishy stench—since ancient times, there was no technology to deodorize soybean oil. Crude soybean oil of that era wasn't for eating; it was for waterproofing building materials and gluing things together. Even using it for lamps was uncomfortable; only the impoverished would use it.
A group of people waited silently amid the acrid, smoky atmosphere. Harano covertly observed their expressions: everyone stood in small clusters, at most whispering quietly to each other, but no one looked impatient. Their tolerance and obedience were impressive, reinforcing his belief that these were definitely not a band of rioters, but rather subjects long under some power's stable rule—docile and orderly.
Then his gaze shifted again to the half-bald old Jiubei's short haori.
The short haori was a sleeveless outer garment, somewhat like a knee-length vest. Reportedly, during the period when Japan's Imperial Court held power, the courtiers would distribute these garments to Samurai for hunting excursions, assigning colors and crests to distinguish different teams. Later, when the Samurai claimed authority, the short haori gradually evolved into a sort of "civil servant uniform."
It wasn't surprising for balding Jiubei to wear a short haori; he was likely a low-ranking or peripheral member of some faction. What mattered was—which power did he belong to? The six white circles on the short haori should be a Family Crest, i.e., a family insignia—this was what Harano was observing.
These six circles—five hollow ones tightly surrounding a solid one in the center, resembling a simple drawing of a flower. Which clan did this represent?
Was it a Warrior Clan or a noble family?
Which historical period was this clan active in?
Harano racked his brains, trying to recall the information and displays he'd seen in archives and museums. After more than ten minutes, he still had no clue. Suddenly, a woman exclaimed in delight beside him: "The fever's gone down! The fever's gone down!" At once, the woman threw herself at his feet, pressing her head deeply to the ground, weeping with joy. "Sir, thank you so much! Thank you for saving our master, for saving our whole family! Truly, truly, thank you!"
Harano exhaled deeply in relief, happiness bubbling up within him.
Of course, it was not just the joy of saving a life; he was also glad that, with his friend, he'd likely found a relatively safe foothold in this unfamiliar world.
Surely this family would treat their savior kindly, right?
And surely, if their benefactor stayed a few days longer and brought a friend along to recuperate, they wouldn't mind?