Chapter 9 — "I Am Oda Nobunaga, Daimyō of the Land of Fields"
"Oho... Lord Nobunaga, your methods truly are magnificent."
Reappearing from the shadows beside the young daimyō, Orochimaru couldn't help but let out a low, admiring hiss. To him, the entire spectacle unfolding across the Land of Fields was nothing short of genius — ruthless, elegant, and terrifyingly effective.
The noble families and bureaucrats, still blissfully ignorant, hadn't realized that the noose had already tightened around their necks. But Orochimaru had seen everything — from the first spark of unrest to the flames of revolution spreading across the countryside.
He knew exactly who had guided the chaos, and to what end.
Still, there was one question even Orochimaru couldn't shake. And that question was why he had come to see Nobunaga in person today.
Because once the people learn to raise their blades — once they learn that violence can change their fate — it's never easy to make them lower those blades again.
Yet, before he could ask, the answer began to unfold on its own.
The crowds — wounded, bloodied, desperate — finally broke through the cordons of Murata's and Kitamura's samurai.
Under Nobunaga's orchestration, they reached the capital. His secret agents among them subtly guided the chaos until the mob was standing right before the daimyō's residence.
Seeing this, Orochimaru — knowing it wasn't yet time for him to reveal himself — watched the young daimyō with sharp, serpentine eyes.
Then, with a silent grin, he melted back into the shadows. He wanted to see how the boy who had ignited this fire would put it out.
---
"Lord Daimyō!"
The first of the commoners burst through the gates, faces streaked with sweat and blood, carrying the bodies of those who had died breaking through the soldiers' lines.
When they finally stood before Nobunaga, they froze.
They had all heard the stories — that the young daimyō was a prodigy who loved the people as his own children — but none had imagined he would be so young.
A boy. Barely more than a child.
For a moment, despair rippled through them. Could someone like this really save us?
But they had come too far to turn back.
Under the blades of the pursuing samurai, the peasants dropped to their knees and began to cry out their grievances — the cruel taxes, the beatings, the corruption, the merchants who robbed them with impunity, and the nobles who treated them as less than animals.
---
"What?!"
Nobunaga shot to his feet, feigning pure shock. His eyes widened, his expression one of disbelief and horror — as though he were hearing of these atrocities for the first time.
"What are you saying?" he cried, voice trembling with righteous anger. "The people of my country live like this?"
The peasants, startled by his reaction, looked up with wet, hopeful eyes.
Then came the guilt — performed with perfection. Nobunaga's face softened, his brows knitted in sorrow.
"I… I had believed that Murata-dono and Kitamura-dono were loyal servants of the realm," he said, voice cracking with emotion. "But I see now they were but wolves preying upon the people!"
He descended from the dais and walked among the peasants, stopping beside the bodies of those who had died to reach him. His hand trembled as he reached toward one of them — a man with mud still clinging to his hands.
But halfway, his hand faltered and dropped.
Tears spilled freely down his face.
Then, before the astonished crowd, Oda Nobunaga — daimyō of the Land of Fields — bowed deeply to the common people.
"It is my fault," he said, voice thick with grief. "Had I not trusted deceitful ministers, none of you would have suffered. None of these lives would have been lost. I beg your forgiveness."
The words hit like thunder.
The daimyō himself — bowing to peasants?
For a long, trembling moment, no one spoke. Then someone whispered, voice quivering with awe:
"A true ruler… a benevolent lord!"
And just like that, the tension snapped.
The crowd began to weep, not from anger but from something deeper — relief, faith, devotion. All their pain, all their grief, seemed to dissolve in that single gesture.
In that moment, Nobunaga became the living embodiment of the rumor that had swept the land.
To the people, he was no longer a child or a noble.
He was their lord — the ruler from legend, the savior they had dreamed of.
No one questioned how many had died, or how the tragedy had begun.
The daimyō had wept and bowed — what more could they ask for?
And as the people cried his name with reverence, far away in the shadows, Orochimaru smiled — his eyes gleaming like a serpent that had found its next great curiosity.
"So that's how you do it… Oda Nobunaga."
"You didn't just win their loyalty — you rewrote their hearts."
[Even the daimyo himself — Lord Nobunaga — had been confined by those damned aristocrats!
He, too, had been deceived… a victim, just like them!]
That was what the people now believed.
Relief washed over their faces. One after another, they dropped to their knees before Nobunaga, voices trembling with emotion.
"We do not blame you, Lord Daimyō!" they cried. "The fault lies with those wicked nobles. Please, do not grieve too deeply!"
But sympathy alone could not satisfy Oda Nobunaga.
Not when his third great lie — the one he had so carefully sown — had yet to fully take root.
He needed more than tears and forgiveness.
He needed power — real, undeniable, absolute.
"Zōmajirō!" he barked suddenly. "Bring me the armor of my forefathers!"
His voice cracked like thunder.
The people froze, and even the remaining samurai glanced at one another in disbelief.
Zōmajirō, however, had been waiting for this moment. With swift precision, he rushed to the storeroom and returned bearing a black lacquered suit of samurai armor — heavy, gleaming, and ancient.
The young lord stood tall as his retainer helped him don the armor piece by piece.
The sight was jarring — the boy daimyō, barely in his teens, swallowed by armor too large for him — and yet the resolve in his eyes made him appear larger than life.
"What… what is he doing?" someone whispered.
When Nobunaga finally fastened the last plate and adjusted his helm, he turned to face the crowd.
"Ever since I inherited this title," he began, his voice calm but carrying to every corner of the courtyard, "the nobles have mocked my youth. They have disrespected me, doubted me, and claimed to serve while bleeding this land dry."
He took a slow breath.
"I had thought them wise — pillars of the realm. Yet today I see the truth. They are not pillars but parasites — feeding on the lifeblood of our nation!"
A collective murmur ran through the crowd.
"To insult me," he said, his tone hardening, "is something I could endure. But to oppress my people?" His hand clenched tightly around the hilt at his side. "That, I will not forgive!"
He drew his blade with a ringing steel cry.
"Today, we strike down the traitors and bring peace to the people!"
"Will you stand with me?"
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then it came — a roar, deep and thunderous.
"Long live the wise lord! Long live the righteous daimyo!"
"Ten thousand years for Lord Nobunaga!"
Their cheers rose to the heavens, echoing beyond the walls of the estate and through the streets of the capital.
In that moment, the rumor that had swept through the Land of Fields became truth.
Oda Nobunaga was no mere ruler — he was the beloved lord who loved his people as his own children, the one destined to change their fate.
But where the people wept with joy, the nobles' retainers turned pale as death.
They saw the truth in Nobunaga's blazing eyes — this was not mercy. It was revolution.
He was going to use this uprising as an excuse to destroy them all.
One of the samurai stepped forward, blade drawn. His voice shook, caught between anger and fear.
"Lord Nobunaga," he warned, "the noble houses have shed their blood for the Land of Fields. Without their counsel, your rule cannot stand!"
Nobunaga turned his head slowly toward him. His tone was calm — too calm.
"Then perhaps they should remember where their wealth and honor come from," he said. "Everything you eat, everything you wear — all of it comes from the hands of these very people."
He raised his sword.
"If protecting them means my death, then so be it. A lord who dies for his people dies well."
Before the samurai could react, Nobunaga stepped forward and drove his blade through the man's chest.
The courtyard froze — and then erupted.
As the body hit the ground, blood spilling onto the stones, the peasants' eyes went red.
"Honor the lord! Expel the traitors!" someone screamed.
The cry spread like wildfire.
"Return the realm to true rule!"
The mob surged forward. Samurai loyal to the nobles barely had time to raise their swords before they were dragged down and torn apart by the furious crowd.
Through the chaos, Nobunaga mounted his horse. Blood still dripped from his blade, but his expression was serene, almost divine.
As he rode through the gates of his manor and out into the capital, the people fell to their knees, shouting his name.
From the streets to the hills, one cry echoed across the Land of Fields —
"Long live Oda Nobunaga — the Lord who stands for his people!"
And under the cold light of the moon, the future of the Land of Fields had already been sealed.