Revenge is a duty, not a feeling

Let us leave the modern world for a while. We set aside the radiant Tokyo, the poetic bustle of Edo, and even the Sengoku period, when gunpowder first reached Japan’s battlefields. We descend deeper—into an age when history still pulsed with raw blood through the veins of a newly born world of samurai. Japan was just rising from the ashes of the fratricidal Genpei War and the dramatic collapse of the aristocratic order. Out of this chaos emerged the first shogunate—the Kamakura bakufu. It was a world utterly unlike the Japan we know: without the soft light of Buddhist gardens, without the refined etiquette of Edo. Here, law was forged by the sword; death was worth more than life; and the notion of honor (名 – na, meaning “name”) carried a meaning far removed from what we might imagine today—or even in the Edo period.

In this world, at the foot of Mount Fuji, two boys grew up—Jūrō Sukenari and Gorō Tokimune, of the Soga clan. Their mother, Mitsue Gozen, did not teach them songs, but the memory of blood. From the youngest age, they knew that they would not be allowed to die until they had slain the man who killed their father. Every day of their youth was a step toward that one night when they would fulfill their giri—the duty that could not be refused. It was not hatred that guided them, but something older and heavier: the echo of a cosmic order demanding bloody balance. When the time came, both knew their lives would end as they must—with a cut, not a word.

Today, we shall learn their story—the first great legend of Japan about samurai revenge. A tale from eight centuries ago, when the word bushi still meant a wild, raw man, untamed by the codes of bushidō; when loyalty was a primal instinct and death a pure instrument of purification. We shall glimpse a world where adauchi—revenge—was not an act of wrath but a ritual of restoring cosmic order. And through the story of the Soga brothers, we will attempt to peer into the soul of a man from that time—cold, faithful, and unfathomably distant from our own. A soul for which forgiveness was a repulsive disgrace toward oneself and one’s ancestors, and death—the longed-for conclusion to a fulfilled giri.

Japan at the End of the Heian Period and the Birth of the Samurai World

At the close of the twelfth century, Japan stood on the brink of transformation—on one side still ruled by the refined imperial court of Heian-kyō (today’s Kyoto), on the other already shaken by the armed tides of a new warrior world. It was a time when the elegance of calligraphy, incense, and waka poetry began to give way to the clatter of hooves and the glint of steel.

In the capital, where noble ladies, nuns, officials, and poets lived to the rhythm of ceremony and aesthetics, the emperor and his aristocracy—descendants of the Fujiwara—moved within a world of symbols and hierarchies, where even the color of one’s robes or the scent of one’s hair held meaning. But far to the east, in the provinces of Izu, Suruga, and Sagami, a new power was rising—the warrior clans who were forging their legacy from earth, sweat, and blood.

There, in the valleys where morning mists veiled the rice fields and the ringing of temple bells mingled with the crowing of roosters, a new caste was born—bushi, the warriors. Their lives bore none of the poetic softness of Kyoto; they moved in rhythm with the seasons, with the rituals of shintō, with duty to their lord and the harsh law of blood.

A Land Divided Among Clans

In the eastern regions, chaos reigned. Powerful clans fought over land, influence, and the loyalty of local houses. The Minamoto (源氏, Genji)—descendants of imperial blood, long cut off from the luxury of the capital—warred against the Taira (平氏, Heike), who dominated Kyoto and controlled the imperial court. This rivalry erupted into the bloody Genpei War (1180–1185), whose echoes still thundered in the memories of men when the tragedy of the Soga brothers unfolded.

In the provinces of Izu and Suruga, between the ocean and the mighty silhouette of Mount Fuji, ruled smaller yet equally proud families: the Hōjō, Itō, Kudō, and Soga. They were all bound by marriages and alliances, but a single word, a wrong gesture, one insult, or a dispute over inheritance could turn those bonds into oaths of blood. Land was the most precious good—the source of wealth, power, and survival. Whoever lost land, lost his name.

It was such a dispute—between Kudō Suketsune and Kawazu Saburō Sukeyasu—that became the beginning of one of the most famous vendettas in Japanese history. Yet before the swords of the Soga brothers gleamed in the torchlight at the foot of Fuji, decades of transformation passed in which the whole country was learning a new order—the rule of warriors.

The Birth of the Samurai World

In the year 1185, the Taira clan was finally destroyed in the Battle of Dan-no-ura. With that victory, Minamoto no Yoritomo—a cold, distant strategist—founded the first military government in Japan’s history, the bakufu in Kamakura (more about the history of the shoguns here: What Does “Shōgun” Really Mean? One word that forged the Japan of samurai in steel and blood). It was a profound revolution: the emperor’s capital remained in Kyoto, but real power passed into the hands of warriors, leaving the emperor with… poetry and ritual.

Kamakura was the antithesis of Kyoto—not a city of gardens and palaces, but a fortress surrounded by bamboo forests, hills, and muddy roads. The air smelled of horse sweat and burning wood, and guards stood at the gates with swords at their sides. In the markets, people sold dried fish, miso, and cloth; after dusk, the only light came from oil lamps.

It was in this world that the concept of gokenin (御家人, literally “servant of the house”) was born—vassals directly serving the shōgun. In exchange for land and privileges, they swore oaths of loyalty unto death. Loyalty, honor, duty—these three words became the new moral backbone of Japan. But along with them came a shadow: the right of revenge.

The World of Common People – Life in the Shadow of Great Clans

The lives of ordinary people followed the rhythm of nature. Peasants worked in rice fields, using irrigation systems of canals and embankments. They wielded bronze sickles, wore hemp garments, and prayed to local kami—the guardian deities of fields and rivers. In winter, they warmed themselves by irori hearths, and their huts smelled of smoke and straw.

Wandering monks recited sutras and sold amulets. Women wore short kimono tied with simple fabric sashes, their hair gathered in plain knots. In the countryside, waka poetry was rarely heard—there people sang imayō and folk songs about spirits and wars.

Death was omnipresent: in sickness, in famine, in battle. People believed that the souls of the dead wandered among the forests, and that every deed—good or evil—bore consequences in future lives. In this world, every existence carried the weight of ritual—and every word spoken before one’s ancestors became an oath.

The Transformation of the Ethos – From Poetry to the Sword

The great warriors of Kamakura did not abandon the ideals of earlier times entirely—they transformed them. From the concept of aristocratic elegance (miyabi), a new sense of beauty was born: austere, simple, rooted in action and loyalty.

Where once the play of words had mattered, now honor did, and the measure of a man became his ability to sacrifice himself in the name of his lord or father.

It was in this world that the idea of adauchi (仇討ち)—sacred revenge—was born. It was not a private vendetta as in Western cultures, but a duty to one’s ancestors, a moral act of restoring balance to a world defiled by injustice. He who did not avenge his father’s wrong brought disgrace upon his lineage. He who avenged—even if he perished—fulfilled his duty.

In those times occurred the events that would forever remain in the consciousness of the Japanese—a story of brothers who placed duty above life, feeling above reason, and the sword above the word.

Their names were: Soga Jūrō Sukenari and Soga Gorō Tokimune.

The Story of the Soga Brothers

The Beginning of the Dispute

At the southern edge of the province of Izu, where steep hills descended toward the ocean and narrow paths wound between rice fields, lay the lands of the Kawazu family (河津), a branch line of the Itō clan (伊東氏). From their stone manor stretched a view over Suruga Bay—on clear days one could see the silhouette of Mount Fuji, its snowcapped peak watching like a vigilant deity. There lived Kawazu Saburō Sukeyasu, an upright man, known for his kindness and generosity toward his vassals. His home was open to traveling monks and wandering performers, and among the fields stood a small shintō shrine where his wife made offerings of rice and sake to the spirit of the land—kami-no-ta-no-ue, the guardian of fertility.

Yet the peace of Izu was only an illusion. In an age when the entire country had only just risen from war, land was everything—a mark of belonging, a symbol of ancestry, the foundation of existence. Boundaries between family estates were rarely clear, and inheritance documents (sōzoku-shō) could be disputed even after many years. Such was the case in the conflict that would change the fate of the Kawazu family and give birth to one of the most famous and bloodstained vendettas in Japan’s history.

North of the Kawazu lands, in the Itō region, ruled Itō Sukechika—a stern but influential lord. He had a daughter, a beautiful young woman, whom he gave in marriage to Kudō Suketsune, a trusted warrior. Suketsune was a man of sharp tongue and ambitions greater than his wealth. He hailed from the Kudō family of Izu Province—a side branch of the great Itō clan—and believed that part of his ancestral lands had unjustly passed into Sukechika’s hands.

When a dispute arose over the borders of fields in the Kawazu region, Suketsune demanded their return, invoking old documents. Sukechika, who valued his family’s dignity and authority, dismissed him coldly:

— “The land my people till belongs to my ancestors. If you have courage, show me your proof before the kami and under the oath of your forebears.”

These words struck like a slap. In twelfth-century Japan, an insult carried the weight of a curse. Suketsune left the Itō manor with a face pale as the snow on Fuji. Soon after, his marriage to Sukechika’s daughter collapsed. The pride of a warrior demanded blood.

Months passed. It was the third month of the year 1176—spring in full bloom. The plum trees blossomed in the valleys, and the wind carried the scent of the sea. Consumed by rage, Suketsune plotted an ambush. He intended to kill Sukechika during a hunt in the Itō region, believing that only blood could cleanse his name.

With a group of trusted men, he hid among the rocks above the path leading to the village. But fate—or perhaps the spirits of the ancestors—mocked him. Through the fog and wind, he failed to recognize his target. When he heard the pounding of hooves, he released his arrow...

A moment later, a scream pierced the air.

It was not Itō Sukechika who fell, but his son-in-law—Kawazu Saburō Sukeyasu, a man who had nothing to do with the dispute and was riding that way by chance, visiting his father-in-law.

When he fell from his horse, blood spread over the wet leaves. His horse galloped on for a moment before collapsing into a ditch. Among Suketsune’s men, silence fell. In twelfth-century Japan, the killing of an innocent man—especially one from a respected house—was not merely a crime; it was a stain upon the soul that brought a curse upon the entire clan.

Kawazu died, leaving behind a young wife and two small sons. It was said that on the night after his funeral, a white fox—messenger from the spirit world—appeared in the garden of his home and howled toward Fuji, as if summoning the gods to bear witness. The widow, Mitsue Gozen, swore to raise her sons so that they would avenge their father.

In those times, the notion of “state law” in the Western sense did not exist. Each family answered to itself, to its lord, and to its ancestors. When someone was slain, it was the family’s duty to carry out adauchi (仇討ち)—revenge. To the people of that age, it was not seen as a brutal vendetta but as a ritual of restoring balance—a duty to the spirits of one’s forefathers, who otherwise would not rest in peace.

It was believed that if the soul of the dead remained unavenged, it would become an onryō—a vengeful spirit bringing disease, fire, and calamity. In such times, even the invisible was part of the law.

The Childhood of the Soga Brothers

The province of Izu was harsh, wild, and beautiful. Villages stretched along the coastline where fishermen caught mackerel and tuna in hemp-fiber nets. Their wives dried fish on bamboo racks, and children ran across the wet sand, gathering shells. Inland, bamboo groves and pine trees grew thick, and narrow paths led to small Buddhist temples where monks recited sutras for the souls of the fallen.

Each morning, people made offerings to the local kami: they hung paper streamers (shide) from branches, poured sake into small cups, and during harvest burned fragrant herbs so the smoke would rise toward the spirits of the fields. It was believed that everything living—a stone, a tree, a spring—possessed a spirit that must be respected.

In such a world lived children who had never known their father’s love. Soga Jūrō Sukenari and Soga Gorō Tokimune grew up hearing from their mother not fairy tales, but the story of the arrow that took their father’s life—and of the shame that could only be cleansed by blood. Their childhood unfolded in the shadow of mountains and to the sound of drums from the monastery where monks prayed for Kawazu Saburō’s soul.

And Mount Fuji, visible from their village, rose each day on the horizon like a silent witness to human oaths and curses. It was both reproach and promise each time the young brothers lifted their eyes toward it.

A woman who lost her husband could not live long without a protector. In the society of the late Heian period, women of aristocratic or samurai lineage had limited means to maintain property on their own—especially in the provinces, where inheritance law (sōzoku) often yielded to the power of the sword. Guided by reason and concern for her children’s safety, Mitsue Gozen accepted the proposal of a powerful neighboring warrior—Soga Sukenobu (曾我祐信).

This marriage changed the fate of her sons. From the orphaned children of Kawazu, they became the Soga brothers—Soga Jūrō Sukenari and Soga Gorō Tokimune.

The surname of their new stepfather was not merely a mark of belonging—in that world, the “name of the clan” (uji no na) was a spiritual anchor, a symbol of the bond between the living and their ancestors.

Sukenobu, an honest and honorable man, treated the boys as his own sons and from their earliest years introduced them to the world of warriors.

Boyhood Years – The School of the Samurai

The life of a young samurai in the Kamakura era began early. Before a boy learned to write, he learned to saddle a horse. Every morning at dawn, when the dew—asatsuyu (朝露 – more here: A Dictionary of Delights – 15 Japanese Words for Fleeting Moments Worth Remembering)—sparkled on the rice stalks, the boys ran to the training grounds behind the Sannō shrine. There, an old warrior—bajutsushi (馬術師 – master of horsemanship)—taught them how to keep balance in full gallop, how to hold the long, asymmetrical yumi bow, and how to draw breath before releasing the arrow.

— “Do not hurry, Jūrō. An arrow that desires its target too strongly will never reach it,” said the old instructor.
— “And what if the enemy is already charging?” replied the impulsive younger Tokimune, gripping his bow until it creaked.
— “Then only calm breath will save you.”

Their days were filled with discipline: morning prayers at the household kamidana altar, training, a meal of cooked rice and miso, followed by lessons in calligraphy and etiquette (reihō).

In the evenings, Mitsue Gozen—a loving mother who had not forgotten her late husband—lit an oil lamp and told them stories of their father: how his horse ran like the wind from Suruga, how just he had been, and how he died at the hands of a traitor.

She did not speak of revenge directly, but her eyes—calm yet burning—betrayed that all her sons’ upbringing led toward a single purpose.

Two Faces of One Soul

As time passed, differences began to emerge between the brothers—differences that the villagers explained through the concept of mitama, the spiritual nature of a person.

The elder, Soga Jūrō Sukenari, was calm and observant, with gentle eyes. He was called nigi-mitama (和御魂)—the “peaceful soul,” that part of the spirit which brings harmony and balance. His movements were measured, his decisions thoughtful.

The younger, Soga Gorō Tokimune, was his opposite—always first into battle, quick to anger, but just as quick to laugh. Within him burned the ara-mitama (荒御魂)—the “wild, tempestuous soul,” symbol of energy and courage.

When Jūrō meditated before the shrine, Tokimune practiced sword cuts with his tachi until his hands bled.

— “Brother, your spirit is like fire. But remember—fire that burns too bright dies sooner.”
— “And yours is like water, Jūrō—calm. And dull as a monk’s prayers.”

Yet their differences did not divide them—they completed each other, like two forces that, according to ancient monks, create the balance of the universe.

In the Shadow of the Shōgun

As they grew, the world around them changed. In Kamakura, the bakufu government of Minamoto no Yoritomo grew stronger, while in the Sagami region, the Hōjō clan was rising in influence.

Their leader, Hōjō Tokimasa, was a perceptive and ambitious man. When he heard of the young Soga brothers—the sons of a fallen warrior of the Kawazu line—he invited them to his residence in Kamakura.

There, amid the bamboo groves and the rhythm of training drums, Tokimasa saw in them not only talented warriors but also political instruments. He granted them protection, horses, and teachers.

Under his guidance, they learned not only combat but also strategy and law—shikimoku (式目), the collection of rules that governed the shōgun’s vassals. In exchange for his patronage, they were to be ready to serve Yoritomo when the time came.

And that time came sooner than they expected.

The Blood Oath at the Father’s Altar

One evening, in the fifth month of the fourth year of the Kenkyū era (in European reckoning: 1193 CE), the brothers returned to their native village. The full moon was reflected in the waters of the irrigation canal, and the crickets played like an invisible orchestra.

In the garden, beside the stone altar engraved with their father’s name—Kawazu Saburō Sukeyasu—they knelt side by side. Mitsue Gozen stood behind them in the white cloak of a widow, holding a cup of sake in her hands.

「父上の御霊、卑しき身にして不肖の子の言の葉をお聞きくださるや。」
(Chichiue no mitama, iyashiki mi ni shite fushō no ko no kotonohawo okiki kudasaru ya).

— “Will the spirit of our father deign to hear the words of this lowly man and his unworthy sons?” said Jūrō calmly, placing his hands on the cold stone.

「父上の御霊にかしこみて誓ひ申す、敵の血、地に滴るまで武を置かず、安らぎを知らず。もし仇討ち成さずして討ち果てるならば、その死は家の面目を失ひ、恥辱となるべし。」
(Chichiue no mitama ni kashikomite chikai mōsu, teki no chi, chi ni shitataru made bu o okazu, yasuragi o shirazu. Moshi adauchi nasazu shite uchihateru naraba, sono shi wa ie no menmoku o ushinai, chijoku to narubeshi.)

— “We swear before you, revered father: until the enemy’s blood drips upon the earth, we will not lay down our arms nor know peace; and if we perish without achieving vengeance, let our death be a loss of our family’s honor and a lasting disgrace.” — the brothers spoke together — slowly, with solemnity and with a conviction so sharp and sombre that even their mother shivered.

They offered sake and a few drops of their own blood. According to the old custom chikai no chi (誓いの血 — literally “the blood of the oath”), the vow became binding only when blood bound words to body. As they lifted the cups, the wind stirred the leaves of the trees, as if their father’s very spirit had nodded in assent.

From that night a different light appeared in their eyes — a quiet flame that burned until the very end.

The Great Hunt

Dawn rose over the Susono plain at the foot of sacred Mount Fuji. It was the fifth month of the fourth year of Kenkyū (1193) — when shōgun Minamoto no Yoritomo summoned his legions to the Fuji no Makigari, the “Great Hunt beneath Fuji.” Never before in Kamakura had there been such a stately assembly: all the gokenin had come — the shōgun’s vassals who had sworn oaths by sword and blood. On the broad meadows around the volcano hundreds of tents with silk curtains were pitched, and family banners fluttered from poles and trees — the white mon of Minamoto, the red of Taira, the blue bearing the Kudō crest, and the yellow of Itō. As the wind moved them, it looked like a sea of color beneath a sky lit by the smoke of campfires.

From afar came the muffled rhythm of taiko drums, blending with the pounding of hooves and the metallic clink of armor. Shōgun Yoritomo, seated in a purple tent bearing the sasanami crest, looked upon his troops with pride. Fuji loomed above all like a cold deity — the mountain of the goddess Konohanasakuya-hime, whose name means “She who makes the blossoms bloom” (more about the name Fuji here: What does “Fuji” really mean – what secrets are hidden within this Japanese sacred mountain and linguistic sphinx? and about her spirits here: Let us walk together to the sacred Mount Fuji – a journey among kami, yōkai, demons, and ancient tales). For the warriors of Kamakura she was, however, the goddess of fate, able both to bless and to consume in flame.

On that plain, among thousands of warriors, were two men of the Soga line — Jūrō Sukenari and Gorō Tokimune. Their faces were calm, almost indifferent, as if they were merely participants in a hunting festival. No one knew that beneath their armor hearts had burned for years with the heat of hatred. To the world they were loyal vassals; to themselves — instruments of vengeance.

In the evening, when the fires were low and only the crickets sang in the grass, the brothers sat by a small hearth. Firelight trembled across their faces, in which one who remembered could discern the features of their father — Kawazu Saburō. Beside them waited two faithful companions — Danzaburō and Oniō — peasants raised in their household who had served them since childhood. Silence reigned; only the creak of horses tethered in the dark and the rustle of armor were heard, as if the forest whispered of the approaching fate.

— “Danzaburō,” Jūrō said calmly, looking into the flame. “Tomorrow, when the drums give the sign… we may no longer be here. Take these letters and return to Soga. Deliver them to our mother.”

The peasant paled.

— “My lords… if you go to death, let our blood flow together with yours!”

Tokimune smiled wryly. — “This is not the time for foolish words. Your life today is weightier than the sword because you have a duty to fulfill. You must deliver the mementos and burn these letters after reading them. That is an order.” — he cut him off.

Then he drew from his sleeve a small pouch containing an omamori amulet, received from their mother, and pressed it into Danzaburō’s hand. — “Give her this. Tell her that her sons kept their word.”

Tokimune tossed a handful of rice husks into the fire; they hissed like rain. — “And when morning comes, Fuji will be witness to justice.”

As he spoke, a dog barked somewhere in the distance, and a cool wind flowed from the woods, carrying the scent of ash and wet grass. Then even Danzaburō understood that the Soga brothers no longer belonged to the world of the living. They still walked and spoke as the living do — but they had already crossed a boundary…

The Night of Vengeance

It was the twenty-eighth night of the fifth month in the fourth year of the Kenkyū era — in Western reckoning, June 28th, 1193. Heavy clouds drifted over the plain at the foot of Mount Fuji, and the wind carried the mountain’s cold, volcanic breath. The night was thick as ink. Torches at the entrances of the camps crackled in gusts of wind, went out, and were rekindled from flint sparks. There were faint, unsettling sounds — the creak of harnesses, the neighing of horses, the rustle of bamboo tents — as if the very earth were holding its breath.

In the deep shadows behind the camp of Kudō Suketsune, two warriors waited in silence. Jūrō and Tokimune, the Soga brothers, looked at each other without words. There was no longer hatred in their faces, only the absolute calm of men who knew their fate had already been written.

Jūrō nodded. They dismounted, raised a torch, and quietly drew open the entrance to the pavilion. Inside, dim light reigned; on a low bed slept Suketsune, the man whose name had been a curse to them for eighteen years. The brothers approached slowly.

Tokimune smiled bitterly. — “Lord Kudō… do you sleep peacefully while waiting for your enemies?”

Suketsune’s eyes snapped open. He instantly grasped the situation and tried to leap up for his sword, but it was already too late. Jūrō struck with a single, clean motion — issatsu ittō, “one strike, one death” (一殺一刀). Blood spread across the tatami like a red thread of karma.

A scream from a neighboring tent roused the guards. Within moments, the entire shōgun’s encampment plunged into chaos. The alarm drums, tsuzumi, thundered wildly, and shouts filled the air: “Traitors! Raise the defense!” Warriors, still half-naked, grabbed bows and swords. Amid the turmoil, the Soga brothers fought like incarnations of the war god Hachiman.

Tokimune, the younger, wild as fire, sowed panic among his attackers. Chronicles record that he slew ten men with his own hands that morning — hence the name jūbangiri (“the slashing of ten”). As his foes fell beneath his blade, each strike seemed a discharge of the wrath accumulated through long years of waiting.

Jūrō Sukenari, the elder, fought with cold precision — his movements quiet and pure, like prayer. Yet fate caught him too. Amid the confusion, he was struck by the warrior Nitta Shirō Tadatsune. Both men fell to the ground, and as Sukenari received a mortal blow to his side, he whispered words that would later be recited in temples:

「命は尽くれど、名は残る」
(Inochi wa tsukuredo, na wa nokoru)

“Life fades away, but the name remains.”

Tokimune saw his brother collapse. He cried out his name, but the sound was lost in the uproar. Then he tore off his armor, uttered a furious shout, grasped his sword with both hands, and charged forward in a frenzy — toward the shōgun’s tent. They said he ran like a demon, hair flying, eyes burning like embers. The guards tried to stop him, but none dared stand in his way. Tokimune cut through ranks of men as though fate itself parted before his blade.

He could already see Yoritomo’s purple banners when suddenly, from the side, a man dressed in a woman’s court robe sprang out — Gosho no Gorōmaru. Pretending to be a handmaiden carrying a message, he hid a chain in his hand. He leapt upon Tokimune, wrapping it around his arms. They fell into the mud, struggling; but Tokimune’s strength was fading. When he managed to lift his head, he saw the stars above him. Then he ceased to resist.

「兄、笑みて曰く、今こそ本望なり。」
(Ani, emite iwaku, ima koso honmō nari.)

“At last… I may die… brother, I come to you…”

The Interrogation and Death of Tokimune

Tokimune was not beheaded on the spot. He was bound in chains — the shōgun wished to know who this madman was. The dawn was cold. Over the plain drifted the smell of ash, wet earth, and blood. Tokimune knelt before the shōgun’s tent, tied but proud. His face was calm, as if he had long since bid farewell to life.

Yoritomo entered, accompanied by his gokenin. Gold gleamed on his armor, but his eyes were weary. He sat upon a raised platform and looked down at the young man.

— “Do you know whom you killed?” he asked coolly.

— “I do, my lord — the one who stained my family’s honor. I did it not from hatred, but from giri — duty toward my father. The blood of the son has washed away the shame of our ancestors. I have no regrets.”

His voice was steady, though his hands bled from the ropes. Silence fell among the warriors. Even Yoritomo was silent for a moment. Then he said quietly:

— “Your courage is greater than your sense. Revenge may be a duty. But if I spared your life, I would open the gates of misfortune across the land.”

Tokimune bowed his head. — “I do not ask for life, only for prayers for my brother’s spirit.”

Then, from the side, a child’s voice was heard — it was Suketsune’s son, barely eight years old. He approached the captive warrior and struck him across the face with a fan. All held their breath. Tokimune smiled sadly.

— “The circle is closed...” he said.

The shōgun rose.

— “Behead him. With honor.”

Tokimune straightened. He asked for water, rinsed his mouth, and looked toward the rising sun above Fuji. Then he said:

— “Vengeance is fulfilled. Now I am empty, like the mountain.”

He smiled faintly and bowed his head — which was then struck off.

At that moment, a flock of wild geese flew over the plain. It is said their cry was a mourning song for the two brothers whose fate became the symbol of the samurai spirit — of hatred transformed into duty, and of duty into eternal legend.

Meaning and Message – The Samurai Mindset of Vengeance

In the world of early Kamakura, when the warrior became the new foundation of order, vengeance was not a crime — it was the order of the world. Adauchi (仇討ち) did not signify an act of anger, but rather the restoration of balance disturbed by spilled blood. It would be a mistake to seek too many parallels here with our European, individualistic, and inherently more emotional concept of revenge.

For the Soga brothers, as for many people of that era, the death of their father was not merely a loss; it was a rupture in the structure of reality. The duty of a son was to fill that fracture with his own blood. A man who failed to avenge the wrongs done to his lineage could not face his ancestors’ eyes. In that sense, adauchi was not personal vengeance, but a ritual act of cosmic reordering.

In Japan at the turn of the 12th and 13th centuries, the notion of “forgiveness” as we understand it did not exist. One does not forgive nature when it brings a storm. One does not forgive a duty that arises from the very nature of existence. The bushi of Kamakura was not a “man” in the sense of an autonomous individual possessing free will — he was a knot of obligations (giri), debts of honor (on), and oaths sworn before the spirits of the dead. Until those bonds were fulfilled, his soul remained impure.

Thus adauchi could be both giri and tatari — duty and curse at once. In the legend of the Soga brothers, this double shadow is clear: on one hand, the pure heroism of sons who give their lives for their father’s honor; on the other, the bitter echo of karmic error. In their actions one sees what, in Buddhist understanding, signifies the unbroken cycle of causes and effects. By killing in the name of justice, they strengthen the very wheel of suffering that gave birth to their own fate.

Unlike Chūshingura, the story of the forty-seven rōnin from the Edo period, here there is no sense of community or collective catharsis. The vengeance of the Soga brothers is solitary, wild, and primordial — devoid of political calculation and the courtly rhetoric of loyalty to one’s lord. It is ara-mitama, the untamed aspect of the soul, not yet subdued by the bushidō codes of later eras. It is anger pure and cold as steel — a force that knows no concept of guilt, for it was created for cutting.

And yet, in this madness there lies a certain kind of order — one different from our own. For a samurai of Kamakura, life had no value in itself. It existed only as an instrument for the fulfillment of duty, and death was its logical completion. “Life fades away, but the name remains” — this maxim, attributed to the Soga brothers, encapsulates the very essence of their age. What mattered was not whether one lived, but how one died.

For the people of that time, honor was neither an abstraction nor a social convention, but a physical burden, worn like a sword at the hip. A disgraced warrior felt literally defiled, as though a sickness had seeped into his body. In a world without a single, overarching, protective god — but filled with countless spirits — purification could come only through action, often the ultimate one.

Thus the story of Soga Jūrō and Gorō Tokimune is not merely a tale of revenge, but of spiritual necessity. Their fate is the echo of the very dawn of the Japanese warrior ethos — not yet transformed into codes and ceremonies, but raw, primal, and sincere. In their oath, their death, and the silence that followed, one can hear the soul of Japan itself: austere, faithful, and tragic. A soul that knows no forgiveness — yet knows peace through the fulfillment of duty.

>> SEE ALSO SIMILAR ARTICLES:

Katakiuchi – A License for Samurai Clan Revenge in the Era of the Edo Shogunate

Honor Did Not Belong Only to the Samurai – Bravery, Courage, and the Ethos of Life of the machi-shū

The Real Sengoku – What Was Life Like for the Swordless in the Shadow of Samurai Wars?

Kan’nen – how shockingly foreign to us is the samurai view of life?

The Monk with the Naginata: The Martial Face of Buddhism in Kamakura Japan

"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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