## Chapter 16: The Immortal Contract — "When You Refuse to Die"

Twenty Years Later - 1546

The funeral pyre had finally burned itself out, leaving behind a pile of pale, flaky ash and the lingering scent of sandalwood and grief. Tsurugi watched the last wisp of smoke dissipate into the grey morning sky. He had observed the entire three-day ritual with the detached interest of a man watching a play he had seen a hundred times before.

The weeping, the chanting, the burning of offerings—it was all so terribly human. So predictable. Taro had performed his function for fifty years, a remarkable run for a man so prone to anxiety. Now, he was simply... gone.

"My lord," a quiet voice said from behind him.

Tsurugi turned. Ryo, Taro's son, stood there, holding the same damned ledger his father had always carried. He had the same perpetually worried expression, but his eyes held a sharper edge, the look of a man who had spent his life not just serving, but *observing* the observer.

"The final rites are complete," Ryo said, his voice steady. "The monks have recorded his name among the virtuous. They say he will be reborn into a higher station."

Tsurugi gave a slight, almost imperceptible shrug. "He would have found that terribly inconvenient. All that bowing to new superiors. He never liked the initial set."

Ryo didn't smile, but a flicker of understanding passed between them. He had been Taro's shadow for thirty-five years. He understood.

"He knew how I took my tea," Tsurugi said, his voice quiet, a rare admission of a personal preference. "He knew the precise number of rocks to skip across the pond to achieve maximum stillness. He knew when to speak and, more importantly, when to be silent. He was always by my side. A constant."

He wasn't sad. He couldn't be. But he was annoyed. He had lost a familiar piece in the long, boring game he was forced to play.

Back in the quiet of his quarters, the absence felt heavier. Taro had been his buffer, his interpreter, the living filter that turned the world's frantic noise into a manageable, low hum. Without him, the full force of human ambition, fear, and adulation was a constant, grating static.

"This can't keep happening," Tsurugi announced to the empty room, and to Ryo, who stood waiting by the door. "I get used to someone, I learn their habits, and then they just... wear out. It's a terrible design. Now I have to start all over again with you. I'll have to show you where the tea is, how to bow without falling over, which officials to ignore... it's a tedious process."

Ryo stepped forward. "My lord, I will do my best to learn quickly."

"That's what they all say," Tsurugi said, his voice laced with a weary sigh. He began to pace, a slow, deliberate motion. "This happens every few decades. I find a competent assistant, they grow old, they die, and I'm left to train their replacement. It's repetitive. I'm tired of it."

He stopped in front of Ryo, who stood frozen, his mind racing to decipher the direct, unnerving language.

"I'm going to have children," Tsurugi said, the words spoken with the same finality as a death sentence. "It's the only way to stop this cycle."

Ryo's breath hitched. He had prepared for many things in his life, but not for this. Not for the Red-Eyed Demon, the immortal founder of their empire, deciding he wanted a family.

"My... my lord?" he whispered.

"Heirs," Tsurugi clarified, as if discussing the next season's crop. "A bloodline. Not just to carry a name, but so I don't have to keep breaking in new helpers. If I have my own children, and they have children after them... at least I'll have a predictable supply of assistants. It's a better gamble than starting from scratch every generation."

"Your... legacy, my lord?" Ryo asked, testing the word.

"No," Tsurugi corrected, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "My peace of mind. I'm creating a long-term solution to a recurring problem. I need to ensure the next generation is reliable. Find me suitable mothers. Women of... substance. Intelligence. A certain resilience. I find fragility so dreadfully boring."

Ryo's mind, a finely tuned instrument of crisis management, immediately shifted gears. This was not a whim; it was the ultimate project. "Understood, my lord. I will begin the selection process. I will compile profiles focusing on lineage, temperament, and... your requirements."

"Excellent," Tsurugi said, dismissing him with a wave. "And add 'finds spiders interesting' to the list. It's a good indicator of a patient mind."

---

The idea of the Founder taking a wife and siring heirs spread through the Tsurugi Zaibatsu like a shockwave. It was the next logical, terrifying step in the evolution of their empire. Within the week, the Council of Steel requested an audience.

They were the original disciples, now old men whose bodies were failing but whose ambition burned as brightly as ever. They did not bow. They stood as equals, the architects of the machine Tsurugi had inadvertently created.

"My lord Tsurugi," said Jiro, their leader, his voice like stones grinding together. "We have heard of your desire to secure your bloodline. We applaud your wisdom."

"I'm trying to secure my own peace and quiet," Tsurugi corrected. "But continue."

"We have come to propose a more... permanent arrangement," Jiro said, unrolling a scroll of thick vellum. It was covered in dense calligraphy and intricate diagrams that looked like a fusion of legal text and spirit alchemy. "A pact. The Immortal Contract. We propose to bind your essence, your will, your very consciousness to the Tsurugi bloodline itself."

Tsurugi leaned forward, a genuine, predatory interest in his eyes. "Go on."

"Your heirs will not just carry your name," Jiro pressed on, his voice filled with fervor. "They will carry your guidance. They will be your vessels in the world, ensuring your vision, your perfect, unerring judgment, will guide us for all time. You will be our eternal emperor."

Tsurugi stared at the scroll. He could feel the power thrumming from it, the combined intent of a thousand believers and a dozen brilliant minds. They weren't just proposing a dynasty. They were trying to turn him into a principle. A law of nature. A machine for producing perfect rulers.

A slow, dark chuckle escaped his lips. It was a sound that made the hardened old men of the council shift uncomfortably.

"You want to make me an echo," Tsurugi said, his voice laced with a terrible amusement. "A whisper in their heads while I'm trapped... where? In a scroll? In a crest? You want to turn my existence into a set of instructions to be followed."

"We want to ensure your glory is eternal, my lord," Jiro said, his brow furrowed.

"You want to ensure your power is eternal," Tsurugi corrected. "But your reasoning is irrelevant. Your idea... is fascinating."

He stood and walked over to the scroll, his crimson eyes tracing the complex patterns. He saw the seals, the sigils, the raw, untamed belief woven into the parchment. They had, in their own clumsy, mortal way, tried to build a god.

"An interesting experiment," he murmured. "But all experiments have variables. What happens if my heirs are dull? What if they are cruel? What if they decide they'd rather be poets than kings?"

"The contract will guide them," Jiro insisted. "Your essence will correct their path."

"Or it will shatter them," Tsurugi said, his voice suddenly as cold and sharp as the winter wind. "You have no idea what you are trying to chain to your mortal line."

He looked at their faces, a mixture of fear, ambition, and utter sincerity. They believed they were honoring him. They were building him a throne, not a cage. And in a way, they were right. It was a throne he could never abdicate.

"Very well," he said, turning away from the scroll. "I accept your proposal. Draw up the final papers. Build your machine."

The council let out a collective, silent breath of relief.

"But know this," Tsurugi said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to make the very air vibrate. He turned back to them, his red eyes burning with an ancient, terrifying light. "I am the one who will decide if this machine works. If my descendants are boring, if they fail to amuse me, if this all becomes as dull as it was before... I'll find a way out of your contract."

He smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips.

"And I will find all of you, in whatever lives you are born into, whatever corners of the world you hide in. And we will have a very, very long discussion about the consequences of disappointing me."

The councilmen paled, but they bowed their heads in submission. They had their immortal emperor.

They just didn't realize they had just made a deal with the audience, who was getting tired of the show and was now walking onto the stage.

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