Chapter 7: A Debt That Can Never Be Repaid
Ever since Oda Nobunaga arrived in this strange shinobi world, he had been fascinated by its contradictions.
On one hand, there were electric lights, refrigerators, and other modern conveniences scattered through the great villages and cities. Yet, once one left the capitals — once the paved roads gave way to dirt — the world reverted into pastoral simplicity. Rice paddies, ox-drawn carts, paper lanterns, and barefoot peasants.
A land where electric bulbs and oil lamps coexisted beneath the same moon.
The world's structure, split cleanly between the modern and the medieval, struck Nobunaga as a dark sort of cosmic joke — an absurd parody of progress that would have made any historian of his old world laugh.
But there was one thing, he noted, that existed in every world, in every form of society — from the most enlightened to the most primitive.
Taxes.
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Because Nobunaga had publicly and adamantly insisted on establishing a shinobi village — Otogakure, a force to protect the Land of Fields — and had, for appearance's sake, entrusted the task to Kitamura-dono (the only elder who had "supported" him in court), the bureaucratic machine had already begun to turn.
And so—
"Collecting taxes! Time to pay your dues!"
A samurai tax official, hair tied in the old chonmage style, walked through a quiet rural village, beating a drum and shouting his summons.
The villagers froze mid-task. The old village headman, his back bent and hands still dirty from the fields, shuffled forward, trembling.
"Sir Samurai?" he asked timidly. "Spring tax and autumn tax haven't come yet… why are you collecting again?"
"Pfah!"
The samurai spat on the ground, his expression radiating contempt.
"You ignorant wretch! What would a lowly peasant know?"
He straightened, puffing out his chest, his voice booming as though he were some noble lord rather than a glorified tax collector.
"This is all thanks to the great mercy of Lord Nobunaga, our esteemed daimyō! He's founding a shinobi village — a true village for the Land of Fields!"
He grinned, pacing back and forth like an actor performing patriotism.
"Once the ninja village is built, there'll be no more bandits, no more foreign lords bullying us! You'll all live peaceful, prosperous lives under the protection of our mighty shinobi!"
The villagers whispered among themselves, hesitant but curious.
On the surface, it did sound like a good thing. If having ninja meant no more bandits raiding their stores, no more wandering thieves burning their crops — then perhaps life would be better.
The part about "foreign nations" meant nothing to them. Wars between countries were things distant and abstract — far away from their rice paddies and thatched roofs.
No matter who ruled above them, the poor still had to till the earth. Taxes would always be due.
"Ah, truly, what a benevolent lord we serve!"
The village head bowed deeply, echoing the murmured gratitude of the crowd. Nobunaga's reputation among commoners had already grown in recent months — stories of his "disguised visits," of him punishing corrupt samurai and protecting peasants, were spreading like wildfire.
The people, naturally, saw this new policy as another act of grace.
But even as he praised their "merciful lord," the village head couldn't help but ask cautiously:
"Then… about this new tax?"
After all, the first thing the samurai had shouted upon arrival was "collecting taxes."
The samurai officials exchanged knowing grins.
"Heh," one of them said. "Not much at all. Only fifty ryō per person!"
"F-Fifty ryō?!"
The old man's knees nearly buckled.
A single D-rank mission could earn a ninja anywhere from 5,000 to 50,000 ryō — but that was for trained killers, not simple farmers.
For an ordinary family of three or four, fifty ryō per person was a devastating amount. A fortune.
Even if they somehow scraped it together, what then? What if a storm ruined the next harvest? What if someone fell ill?
Would they sell their land? Their tools? Their daughters?
The samurai's smirk said everything.
The village head's voice trembled. "B-but… we don't even have that kind of silver—"
The samurai cut him off with a sharp glare.
"Then borrow. Sell something. The daimyō's decree isn't open for debate."
His tone dripped with mockery. "Surely you don't mean to reject the lord's benevolence, do you?"
The old village headman, bruised and trembling, could no longer contain himself.
He stepped forward, voice quivering with both fear and desperation.
"Milord… our little village folk truly can't gather so much money!" he pleaded.
"Of course, the great daimyō's kindness must be repaid, but this tax—"
Before he could finish, the samurai tax officer's open palm cracked across his cheek.
"Ungrateful peasants!" the man barked. "It's only fifty ryō per head! You think that's too much for the honor of serving your lord?"
"Once the grand Otogakure is built, you'll enjoy peace for generations, and all you do is whine about a little hardship!"
The officer's voice carried through the village square as four or five other armored men surrounded the old man.
Then came the beating — brutal, efficient, and public.
When they were done, the headman lay half-curled on the dirt road, his face swollen, his hands clutching the ground as if the earth itself might spare him.
The samurai laughed coldly and turned to the watching villagers, who stood frozen in silence, anger burning behind their downcast eyes.
"Three days," the officer announced. "When we return, the silver had better be ready."
With that, they mounted their horses and left, the sound of hooves fading into the hills.
Only then did the villagers rush forward, helping their headman up.
No one spoke at first. The weight of hopelessness pressed over them like fog.
Finally, someone whispered, "Village chief… do we pay or not?"
He sat there, shaking, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. After a long silence, he rasped,
"…Pay."
He winced as he stood, pain tightening every line of his face. "A beating hurts less than a beheading," he muttered bitterly.
And under his direction, the villagers began gathering what little grain and valuables they had left — their winter stores, their emergency savings — anything that might be sold for silver.
---
Meanwhile, the tax officers rode toward the next settlement.
One of the younger men, still new to the work, finally spoke in a hesitant voice.
"Chief… isn't fifty ryō too much?" he asked quietly. "The decree said thirty."
The older samurai chuckled, his voice dripping with the cynicism of experience.
"Ah, you've got a lot to learn." He gave the younger man a patronizing glance.
"When those above eat meat, those below should at least drink the soup. If we don't skim something, who's going to pay for our worn boots and torn coats, eh?"
He waved dismissively. "Besides, who's keeping count? The lords don't care what we collect — only that they get their share. And when they take their slice, what'll they say if we didn't take ours?"
His smirk widened. "How else do you think those grand karō manage their mansions and their mistresses? Everyone eats. That's the rule."
The young tax man looked uneasy.
"But… I heard the merchants in the cities have already lowered the price of grain for buying, and raised the price for selling. If we take this much from the farmers—"
"—They'll starve?" The chief snorted. "Not our problem."
He kicked his horse forward, laughing. "The heavens rain when they please, mothers marry off daughters when they wish. The world's never been fair — so why should we care?"
Behind him, the younger man fell silent, staring down at the dirt road as if he could still hear the distant cries from the village they'd just left.
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Back in the capital — the Oda manor of the Land of Fields.
"Kitamura and the others raised the tax to fifty ryō per person?"
Nobunaga asked the question with a faint smile, seated in his study. His tone was casual, but his eyes gleamed with the sharp edge of calculation.
Before him knelt his informant — Kinoshita Jirō, the former wandering "monkey" ninja who now served under him.
The man's back was bent low, his voice trembling in mock humility. "Indeed, my lord. The initial figure set by the elders was thirty ryō per head, but after passing through several hands… it seems to have grown to fifty."
He paused, glancing up briefly to gauge Nobunaga's mood before continuing.
"Worse yet, those greedy nobles have joined forces with the merchants. They're using the tax as an excuse to squeeze the people from both sides — raising the price of goods, lowering the value of grain."
Kinoshita pressed his forehead to the floor, his tone dripping with feigned outrage.
"Such corruption is an insult to your name, my lord — an attempt to defile your noble intentions."
He stopped there, leaving the next words deliberately unsaid.
A clever subordinate knew when to stop talking — and when to let his master decide how angry to be.
---
Nobunaga's fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of his chair.
A soft, thoughtful rhythm.
In truth, he had expected this.
Power, he had learned, always distorted when filtered through layers of greed.
He could declare any ideal he wanted — mercy, progress, protection — and by the time his words reached the villages, they would become a weapon.
The "kindness" of a lord was always paid for with someone else's suffering.
He leaned back, eyes narrowing.
"Well," he said quietly, "it seems it's time for the people to see what kind of lord I truly am."
The air grew heavy with anticipation.
Because when Oda Nobunaga smiled like that…
it usually meant someone — or many someones — was about to learn the price of their greed.
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