Chapter 6: So What If You're a Daimyō?
"Lord Daimyō, shouldn't the matter of founding Otogakure be reconsidered?"
The voice broke the still air of the council chamber.
Inside the main hall of Oda Nobunaga's manor, the meeting had grown tense. The young daimyō sat at the head of the tatami-lined room, his expression composed yet unreadable. Below him knelt the gathered karō — the elder retainers and lords who served as the pillars of the Land of Fields.
The one who spoke, Murata-dono, was the most senior among them, a man whose family's name carried the weight of decades of power. He stood, bowing slightly, but his voice held not respect — only challenge.
"With all due respect, my lord," he said, "the Land of Fields is a small country. Do we truly need a ninja village? Are you planning to compete with the Five Great Nations?"
A faint murmur of agreement rippled through the room.
Murata's lips curled into something between a sneer and a smile.
"Even if we were to gather every minor shinobi clan within our borders," he continued, "what strength would that give us? A handful of half-trained mercenaries playing at soldiers?"
He swept his gaze across the other elders — men who, like him, formed the political core of the nation.
"Our young lord may be newly enthroned," he said, "but we are not fools. We remember what happens when lords pour their wealth into ninja villages. The daimyo may fund them, yes — but in the end, those ninja only obey their so-called Kage."
He spat the word as if it were poison.
"Even if your 'Otogakure' cannot claim that title, its leader will still command the loyalty of the shinobi. So tell me, my lord — why should we raise a pack of disobedient dogs and pay them from our own coffers for the privilege?"
---
Nobunaga's voice, when it came, was soft — almost hesitant.
"Murata-dono, though the Land of Fields is small, I have read… records of the great ninja wars. Their cruelty. Their scale."
He paused, his young hands folded neatly upon his lap.
"I believe that possessing a modest force capable of protecting our people — our homeland — is necessary."
There was no commanding tone, no thunderous charisma.
The same boy who could toy with Orochimaru himself now seemed stripped of that power, speaking not as a ruler but as one pleading to be heard.
It was deliberate.
But the elders didn't see it.
To them, he was merely a timid child in ceremonial robes — a boy playing daimyō.
---
Murata's mouth twisted in a smirk.
"Heh… as expected of a youth."
The room filled with low chuckles.
The men exchanged knowing glances — nobles reassuring each other of their superiority.
A child who still wet his inkstone had no business dictating national policy.
"My lord," Murata pressed, stepping forward, "do you have any idea how much it costs to found a ninja village?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"Do you know how much it costs to maintain one? To train, feed, and arm ninja?"
His words struck like lashes, each one designed to humiliate.
Nobunaga lowered his head slightly, saying nothing.
Murata took that silence as weakness.
"Don't tell me," he scoffed, "that you expect the village to sustain itself through missions. Almost every high-paying contract in the ninja world belongs to the Five Great Nations. Do you really think anyone would hire ninja from a backwater country like ours?"
He slammed his palm on the tatami.
"To build a village is to cripple the Land of Fields! It will drain us dry, all for a fantasy!"
He looked around. The other elders nodded in agreement, murmuring assent.
Every voice in the room — every old, lined face — turned against the boy sitting above them.
It was unanimous.
No one supported the founding of Otogakure.
No one supported him.
---
And through it all, Nobunaga sat quietly, head slightly bowed, eyes half-lidded in what appeared to be shame.
Only those closest might have noticed the faint curve at the corner of his lips — the ghost of a smile, hidden in shadow.
Because for all their pomp and certainty, the elders had already done exactly what he wanted.
They had declared, before the gods and their own pride, that they would never build a ninja village.
Which meant… when he built one anyway, it would not belong to them.
It would belong to him alone.
"Suppose I insist on founding it?"
At that, a faint spark of youthful stubbornness lit Oda Nobunaga's face. He fixed Murata-dono with a long, steady look before sweeping his gaze across the rest of the council.
"I am the daimyō of the Land of Fields."
The sentence was spoken like a verdict—meant to shut down dissent by the sheer fact of his title.
Murata's eyes roamed the young lord's face with insolent appraisal. He didn't voice everything on his mind, but the meaning was clear enough: the Land of Fields was a patchwork of petty lords like him. Did Nobunaga truly believe that simply wearing the title granted him absolute power? Feudal bonds were messy—vassals of vassals, layers of authority that didn't necessarily bend to a child sitting in the capital. The local magistrates and officials in the fiefs likely didn't take the boy seriously at all.
Murata was about to deliver another round of bureaucratic ridicule when, unexpectedly, another elder rose.
"Lord Nobunaga has my support," said Kitamura-dono.
"What? Kitamura—!" Murata sputtered, stunned. The room's senior man had not expected a single dissenter among the elders—let alone a turncoat. Was Kitamura trying to cozy up to the daimyō for gain? Or hoping to seize influence while the boy seemed weak? Murata didn't trust it for a second.
Kitamura met Murata's blazing stare with an unflinching look of his own, then turned to the young lord and spoke in an impassioned cadence. He praised Nobunaga's patriotic zeal and framed the Otogakure proposal as a matter of honor and necessity. With rhetorical flourish he pledged to take charge of the village's founding himself.
"Very well," Nobunaga said, eyes brightening with a pleased, almost triumphant expression. He handed the responsibility to Kitamura smoothly—the plan unfolding exactly as he'd hoped. Kitamura accepted the appointment and soon departed the hall with a retinue of grumbling elders.
When the old men—proud, practiced, and easily offended—left the room, the floorboards creaked as something else slipped up into view. Orochimaru emerged from the shadows, silent and composed as ever.
Watching the departing backs of Kitamura and the others, he licked his lips and tilted his head in curiosity.
"You intend to use them as pawns?" he asked, not really asking at all. Orochimaru did not believe for a moment that the pale, composed Nobunaga could meet him as an equal without scheming. Today's apparent weakness, he figured, was a performance.
"Rather than scheme, let me simply eliminate them," Orochimaru offered coldly. "Or bind them with genjutsu. No need for needless subtlety."
"Will genjutsu hold them forever?" Nobunaga replied coolly, his expression returning to that mask of careful calculation.
Orochimaru lowered his eyes—he knew illusions had time limits. Periodic reinforcement would be required if one relied solely on genjutsu.
"In that case, let me kill them," he insisted, eager to remove any obstacle so he could quickly use the Land of Fields' resources to fund Otogakure and accelerate his search for the Rabbit Goddess. To him, a clean cut was the fastest route forward.
"Leave it to me," Nobunaga said serenely. "Rather than waste your efforts squabbling with these parasites, go start preparations for your search."
He restrained the impatient serpent with a gentle but firm hand, because Nobunaga had a different design: he wanted a Land of Fields that answered only to him. No other hand could be allowed to steer that work.
Orochimaru looked at him, smiled lightly, and gave a subtle warning with his gaze—time, he implied, was not on Nobunaga's side. Then he departed to attend to his own plans.
In the now-empty hall, the departing elders regrouped in whispers. Murata scowled at Kitamura's back—convinced his colleague had grasped at opportunity.
"Do we need funds to build a shinobi village?" Kitamura asked with feigned secrecy, and the others leaned forward.
"Money?" At the word, their faces lit up. The men were veteran bureaucrats; give them a pretext and they would find a method. If the daimyō insisted on a village and the treasury was thin, the solution was simple: tax. Create a new levy under a patriotic pretext, assign it to some long-term fund, and the coffers would be filled for generations.
Kitamura's words were a spark that warmed a room full of old wiles: "If Lord Nobunaga truly insists on establishing Otogakure, we can justify a temporary increase in levies—call it a special fund for national defense. The revenues will be collected and stored for the village's founding and upkeep."
As the elders' expressions shifted to avaricious approval, Murata's scowl deepened. His "solid-state" cynicism had met the other old hand's political craft—and the room bent itself once more to the familiar business of preserving privilege.
And somewhere beneath the tatami, while the nobles debated taxes and schemes, Nobunaga's quiet smile lingered—small, knowing, and entirely his own.