Chapter 1: The Samurai, the Ninja, and the Daimyō
"Sigh…"
A long, weary sigh drifted through the air — one so heavy and mournful that it was hard to believe it came from a boy barely ten years old.
When people turned toward the sound, what they saw resembled not a child, but a beast of burden broken by life — a sigh born of endless hardship.
The boy sat slumped before a dango shop, a skewer of three-colored dumplings in his hand, his expression one of existential despair.
Passersby exchanged puzzled glances.
His clothes, though without any family crest, were clearly of high quality — the kind only the sons of noble families could afford. And beside him stood a samurai, hand resting solemnly on the hilt of his sword.
The townsfolk's collective thought was simple and sincere:
What in the world?
A rich young lordling sighing like a widowed farmer — is he mocking us?
Because of the boy's status, they ignored the deep melancholy in that sigh, a sound that could have brought tears to even the most jaded listener.
Yet what none of them knew was that inside this young boy's body did not dwell merely a single soul.
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"Zōmajirō," the boy muttered between bites of dango, "tell me, how did I end up so damned unlucky?"
"Lord Nobunaga! How could you say such a thing?" The retainer at his side — Zōmajirō — straightened in alarm. "Have I somehow failed in my duties? Please, my lord, allow me to commit seppuku to atone for my disgrace!"
Before Nobunaga could even respond, Zōmajirō had drawn his blade with deadly resolve — completely unfazed by the bustling marketplace around them.
To him, letting his master express such despair in public was a shame beyond measure — one that could only be cleansed by death.
And he was not merely thinking it. He was acting on it.
In the stunned eyes of the boy, the samurai fell to his knees, pulling open his robe and setting the gleaming blade against his abdomen.
"Wait, don't—!"
Nobunaga jumped up, reaching out to stop the man from disemboweling himself on the spot.
But before he could, a harsh voice — dripping with Kansai twang and arrogance — rang out nearby:
"You bastard! You filthy commoner! Don't you know to make way when a great samurai passes?!"
"I'll use you for a blade test! Maybe in your next life, you'll remember to kneel when you see your betters!"
The words cracked through the street like a whip, loud and grating — yet that distinctive Kansai inflection gave it a strange, almost musical rhythm.
And thus began the encounter that would forever alter the fate of a boy burdened with more than one soul — and the world he was destined to upend.
Zōmajirō, who only a heartbeat ago had been ready to gut himself in shame, froze mid-act. If his rashness caused any harm to his lord… that would be unforgivable.
He hastily straightened, sliding the blade back into its sheath and positioning himself protectively in front of the boy. His sharp, vigilant eyes locked onto the commotion unfolding down the street.
There, a samurai with a perfectly shaved chonmage topknot was clutching an old woman by the collar — a frail peddler who sold baby turtles — and screaming at her with wild fury.
From the whispers of the surrounding crowd, the boy and Zōmajirō quickly pieced together what had happened: the old woman had accidentally brushed her basket against the samurai's scabbard. The man, rather than dismissing it, had twisted the incident into an insult against his so-called "samurai spirit."
"Sigh…"
The boy shook his head, expression calm yet heavy with irony.
Still clinging to 'the way of the samurai' in an age that no longer needs it?
It was laughable — just like his ever-dramatic retainer who kept threatening seppuku over the smallest things.
Sensing his lord's faintly mocking gaze, Zōmajirō's blood began to boil. He couldn't stand by while such a brute shamed the name of all true warriors. His hand fell to his sword, ready to silence that loudmouthed disgrace.
"Great samurai, was it?"
Thud!
Before Zōmajirō could take a step, a boot connected with the loud samurai's ribs, sending him flying through the air like a sack of rice.
"Who dares strike me?!" the samurai roared, staggering to his feet. "You dare attack a noble samurai? Do you wish to be my next blade test?!"
But the crowd's jeers turned to stunned silence as the samurai drew his sword — only to freeze when he saw who had kicked him.
His face drained of blood.
The attacker was short, wiry, and almost feral-looking — with quick, darting eyes and an energy more animal than human. To call him monkey-like would have been an understatement.
"N-Ninja-sama! I-I didn't know!"
The samurai dropped his sword as if it had burned him and fell to his knees with a resounding thump. Gone was the swagger, gone was the pride. He was just another terrified man begging for his life.
"Heh."
The "monkey" ninja grinned faintly, seeming to savor the sight of a once-proud warrior groveling at his feet. Then, with a lazy kick, he sent the samurai rolling — quite literally — across the street like a gourd.
The poor man rolled and bounced until he came to a stop right before the boy sitting outside the dango shop.
"Hmm?"
The ninja's gaze followed, and he spotted the child — guarded closely by Zōmajirō, who stood between them like a drawn blade.
Taking a few brisk steps, the monkey-like man stopped the rolling body underfoot and looked closely at the seated boy's expression.
"Please, Ninja-sama! Spare me, I beg you! My life isn't worth anything!"
The samurai wailed, feeling the crushing weight of the ninja's sandal on his chest. All his earlier bravado was gone; he was nothing but a trembling fool.
"Heh."
Another short, meaningless sound escaped the ninja's lips. His eyes, sharp and calculating, studied the boy's face for a long moment.
Then, without hesitation, he shifted his weight.
Crack.
The sound was wet and final — like a watermelon splitting open in summer heat.
Blood and bone splattered in red-and-white arcs, but not a single drop reached the area around the boy. The precision of that restraint told of terrifying control.
The street was deathly silent.
Then the ninja knelt.
"My name is Kinoshita Jirō," he said clearly, lowering his head until it almost touched the ground. "It is an honor to stand before you… Oda Nobunaga-sama, Daimyō of the Land of Fields."
The crowd gasped.
"You—! How dare you address Lord Nobunaga so casually!" Zōmajirō barked, stepping forward and drawing his blade. "You will not take another step toward my master!"
But the boy raised a hand.
"Stand down, Zōmajirō."
Nobunaga's voice was calm, almost amused. He approached the kneeling ninja and placed a hand on his shoulder.
He could feel the man's respect — not out of fear, but reverence.
In that moment, Nobunaga smiled faintly. If only this world were not one of the Five Great Ninja Villages, he thought. If only it were the age of monkeys, turtles, cranes, dragons, and tigers — a world of a hundred battling clans.
"Well done," he said softly. "A samurai who would test his blade on the people of my land has no right to live."
"I am the Daimyō of the Land of Fields — your lord, your sky."
"And the sky," Nobunaga's gaze swept over the kneeling masses, "exists to protect all who live beneath it."
"That," he declared, his voice rising with the weight of destiny, "is my divine mandate!"
The sound of kneeling bodies filled the street — thump, thump, thump — until everyone present, from beggar to merchant to warrior, bowed before the boy who spoke like a god.