There seem to be some words engraved on the fragment.
"Pick it up, "the Scribe read softly.
"The abbot of the Soryu Dojo, failed to live up to the expectations of generations and was unable to live to see it."
I now entrust everything to my son, Hirano, and hope that our hopes will be fulfilled soon.
"Yuan is tired."
Yuan is Hirano's father's name.
Hirano had already recognized what the fragment was.
That was his father's Bamboo Sword Fragment, the most important personal item he had kept since childhood.
Even Hirano himself was not allowed to touch it by his father.
That very night, however, Yuan herself broke it in half, carved words on it, and put it in a box.
"These belong to your father, don't they?"
"Place the fragment in Hirano's hand, "the Scribe said.
"Although I have never met him, I can sense that he is an upright person."
"Thanks."
At this moment, Hirano was already in tears.
He held the fragment in his hands, placed it against his chest, and said in a trembling voice.
'If my father heard you say that, he would be very happy.'
Nodding, the Scribe looked at the second item in the box.
It was a note with some words on it.
"Haha, it seems I'm not the one who'll be waiting for that person."
"What a pity, I was hoping to see what it looked like, but oh well, it's fine as it is."
"Owner Rin'aoi, you're stepping down just like that!"
Rin'aoi is one of the few female dojo masters in the Soryu Dojo.
At the same time, she is also Hirano's grandmother, and is extremely generous by nature.
The words she left behind also reveal that, in her final moments, she expressed more than just regret.
More than anything, it was a sense of relief that was hard to put into words.
After taking out the branches of the Rin'aoi, the Scribe and others looked at the next one.
The following notes all expressed the regret of not being able to wait for the Scribe, and the wish to entrust hope to the next owner of the farm.
The further you scroll down, the older the era becomes.
Similarly, the more blurred the handwriting becomes.
But no matter what, the Scribe showed not the slightest impatience.
Slowly take the item out and read the text on it.
After a moment of silence and reflection, it is then carefully placed aside.
Soon, half of the items in the box were taken out.
At this moment, something unusual appeared.
It was a tattered piece of cloth, as if it had been torn from clothing.
It looked like it had been completely soaked in blood, turning dark red.
And there were some words written on it as well.
"I am ashamed of the tragic fate of Su Liu, and I have failed all the previous owners of the stadium."
"In addition, due to its weak strength and years of wandering, it is still unable to rebuild the temple."
"I have no hope in this life. I hope that future farm owners and those who are waiting can forgive Anmoku's incompetence!"
Anmoku was the farm owner's son who survived the massacre.
Despite it being just three simple sentences, Hirano and the others could still feel the pain that Anmoku had endured.
The vast dojo was now empty except for him; he had no one to rely on and had to start all over again.
He made no progress in his later years and died with resentment in his heart.
"Anmoku plantation owner, that's not your fault."
Looking at the dark red rag, Asatsuru covered her mouth, tears streaming down her face.
The two had similar experiences, both losing their parents at a young age.
Therefore, Asatsuru can understand and appreciate the emotions in Anmoku's writing.
However, she was fortunate to have her grandfather to rely on.
Even so, Asatsuru herself almost didn't make it through after losing both her parents.
Anmoku farm owners, on the other hand, have to rely on themselves for everything.
In those times, it was probably better to just die.
The silence grew even deeper. The Scribe took out the rag and looked at the next person.
One note after another, one object after another.
Although each note contained the heartache of the previous owner, some even expressed their self-blame and pain.
But in any case, they never expressed the same thing.
That is, never regret the choices you make.
They spend their entire lives waiting for Scribe, without complaint or regret!
In the end, only one thing remained in the box.
That was at the very bottom, a letter.
On the outermost side of the letter, a few words were clearly written.
"The head of the Soryu Dojo, Hakuji."
Chapter 350 Hakuji's Letter
Looking at the words above, the Scribe paused for the first time.
The Scribe, who could easily slay demons and even chase after Muzan, hesitated for once at this moment.
If a ghost saw this, it would probably slit its eyeballs out.
To them, the Scribe was, in some ways, an even more terrifying being than Muzan.
At least, Muzan wouldn't easily take their lives when he needed them to do things or act as his assistants.
But the Scribe is different; he will show no mercy to any man-eating ghost.
One slash, one kill; being hit means certain death.
But even such a person frowned at this moment.
He kept rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, as if he was hesitating about something.
At that moment, Tamayo's delicate white hand suddenly rested on the back of the Scribe's hand.
"It's alright, that child won't be angry with you."
A gentle voice rang out, Tamayo offered her advice.
'And you, you know that child better than I do, don't you?'
"Um."
After taking a deep breath, the Scribe made up his mind.
"Let's go outside."
Tamayo glanced at Hirano and Asatsuru and said calmly.
Give them both space to talk.
Although the letter's owner was no longer there, Tamayo still placed it in an important position.
Because she knew Hakuji's place in the Scribe's heart.
Since I met the Scribe, this was the first time I had seen him spend such a long time with an ordinary person.
Throughout his life as Scribe, the person he had the most contact with was undoubtedly Tsugikuni Yoriichi.
The second most numerous person would probably be Hakuji from back then.
After exchanging a glance, Hirano and Asatsuru knew they shouldn't stay there any longer.
"Ms. Tamayo, this way please."
Hirano was the first to stand up and make an inviting gesture.
"I have some coarse tea and thin cakes here, I hope you won't mind."
"Then I'll trouble you."
Nodding, Tamayo indicated.
'Perfect timing, I also have some things I'd like to discuss with Asatsuru.'
Led by Hirano, Tamayo and the others left the room.
Before leaving, she didn't forget to give Scribe a look.
That look in his eyes seemed to say, "Don't be nervous."
Responding to a grateful look, Scribe sat down on the sofa.
After a loud thud, only the Scribe remained in the room.
After finishing his tea, the Scribe crossed his hands and silently looked at the envelope in the box.
After what seemed like an eternity, he took a deep breath and then took out the envelope.
Looking at the somewhat ugly characters "Hakuji" on the envelope, a helpless smile appeared on his lips.
"Your handwriting is still so bad."
The Scribe clearly remembers that Hakuji back then couldn't even write his own name.
In fact, he can't even recognize many characters.
So much so that when he was learning alongside her, the Scribe had to spend a great deal of time teaching him to read and write.
From the other person's name to daily necessities, from herbs to medical devices.
It can be said that the Scribe devoted a great deal of effort to Hakuji.
Moreover, Scribe also remembered that Hakuji had once asked him for advice on how to write a love letter.
"I want to write a letter to Koyuki."
Thinking back to Hakuji's shy, downcast face, Scribe felt as if she had returned to the past.
But that's just an impression.
The people and things that once existed have all disappeared.
The people in my memory have become black words on white paper.
Slowly tearing open the envelope, the Scribe took out the letter inside and laid it flat on the table.
The letter contained very little content, taking up only about half a page.
Moreover, the handwriting indicates that the letter was not written at the same time.
Every few segments, noticeable differences appear.
Perhaps it took many years to put together this letter.