What's the Point of Being Unrivaled in the World?
The next morning, Oda Nobunaga awoke early—not from excitement, but because the flames had roused him again.
The effects of the potion were fading, and Ryūjin Jakka's searing fire reclaimed his body. It felt as though countless ants gnawed at his flesh, each bite a reminder of the three centuries he had endured this torment.
But today, all of that could finally end.
If he could obtain the Snow Lotus, he could grind it together with other herbs into an ointment. Applied to his scorched body, it would soothe the flames that had tormented him for three hundred years.
Rising from the water tank that served as his refuge, the splashing woke Guidie, who had been resting nearby.
"Lord Nobunaga," she whispered softly, her voice filled with tenderness. She didn't speak to dissuade him—her eyes alone conveyed her unspoken plea.
"Bandage me," Nobunaga said firmly, excitement barely contained in his voice. "Today is the day of the expedition. How could the commander-in-chief let his men see him huddled in a water tank? I will greet them myself!"
Guidie lowered her gaze and complied. She gently wiped away the droplets from his skin, then bound his body in fresh bandages and helped him into a bright purple kimono.
Nobunaga took up his Zanpakutō, slid it into his sash, and stepped out of the thatched hut in wooden clogs.
The sky was just beginning to pale in the east, while the rest remained a somber green-gray. The mountaintop air was crisp, biting against the remnants of heat from his cursed flames. Nobunaga inhaled deeply, casting his gaze toward the west.
There, in the distance, lay Liuyue City—the heart of the Fifteenth Western District. All taxes for the district were collected there, and once the accounts were verified, the collectors would move on to the next province.
"Snow Lotus…" Nobunaga's eyes shone with longing. Just a little longer, he told himself.
Turning away, he sat cross-legged upon a moss-covered stone, waiting. Guidie went to prepare breakfast for the seven of them, while he stared down the misted mountain path, wondering who would arrive first.
It had to be him.
The mist shifted, and two figures emerged.
The first was a man with a silver ponytail, his stride confident, a large blue pack slung across his back and straw mats rolled over his shoulders. Beside him walked a striking woman, her face calm and expressionless.
"Haha!" Nobunaga laughed, rising to his feet. "I'm glad to see you safe. Word reached me of your feat—fighting four captains alone. I feared you might not come."
Shiraishi smirked. "You're behind on the rumors. They're saying I fought four captains and killed three."
The truth—that he had faced four divisions and barely escaped—was already lost to embellishment. As tales spread through the districts, they only grew more outrageous.
Nobunaga chuckled, then glanced at Nie Yinmeng. "And the rumor that a vice-captain abandoned her post, bewitched by your charm, to wander the world with you—surely that part's true?"
"That's nothing but idle gossip," Shiraishi replied dryly. "I'm not nearly handsome enough for that."
He reached the mountaintop and immediately cut to the point. "When do we depart?"
"The tax officials take time with their calculations," Nobunaga answered. "Leave your gear inside. Once my men arrive, we begin."
Shiraishi nodded, dropped his pack in the hut, and laid the mats on the table. Nie Yinmeng, more cautious, carefully placed down her bag filled with pans, knives, and cooking supplies.
"Guidie once ran a tea shop," Shiraishi said. "Her cooking is unmatched. Go lend her a hand."
Nie Yinmeng agreed at once, trotting off to the kitchen.
Returning to Nobunaga's side, Shiraishi asked, "The one coming up the path—guest or enemy?"
"A guest," Nobunaga replied.
Soon, a white-haired old man appeared, drinking from a gourd of liquor. Two swords hung at his waist, one long and one short, his robes and hair fluttering freely as he strode toward them with a carefree air.
"You've surely heard the name Miyamoto Musashi," Nobunaga said with a faint smile.
Shiraishi's eyes widened. "That's Miyamoto Musashi?"
The name was legendary, a staple even in modern tales of kendo masters.
Nobunaga nodded gravely. "Indeed. The Niten Ichi-ryū he created is unrivaled in this world."
"Unrivaled in the world, eh?" Musashi laughed, tossing the gourd into the air. "What's the point of that?"
Nobunaga caught it, drank deeply, and ignored the searing pain of the liquor against his scorched insides. "A drink before battle is tradition. Care for some?"
"I'll pass," Shiraishi said. The thought of sharing a gourd between two men did not appeal to him.
Nobunaga threw the gourd back. "This is Shiraishi—the swift swordsman whose name is spreading everywhere."
"Oh?" Musashi's gaze sharpened. Up close, he couldn't sense the man's spiritual pressure at all. What kind of blade did this man truly wield?
Then—
Boom.
A pale skull loomed in his perception, a herald of death.
Musashi's pupils dilated. That presence—it wasn't Shiraishi. His eyes darted toward Liuyue City.
"Lord Nobunaga," he said, voice low, "do you sense it?"
Nobunaga's expression hardened. The potion still gave him half his strength, and the spiritual pressure raging through the city could not be ignored.
Shiraishi's face twisted in disbelief. "No way… they sent Kenpachi Zaraki to collect taxes?"
Beneath his wrappings, Nobunaga's face darkened. He knew immediately who was behind this.
Aizen.
It had to be his doing, feeding information to the Gotei 13 until they sent the Eleventh Division's captain himself.
"Hmph." Nobunaga sneered, his voice carrying no hesitation. "Musashi—are you confident?"
"Yes," Musashi answered without pause. His blood was already surging, boiling with anticipation. It had been too long since he felt such fire before battle.
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