"Open the gate! Here arrives Kanbe'e Kodera, the deputy of Masamoto Kodera, Lord of Gochaku Castle in Harima! We request an audience with Lord Settsu-no-kami Araki!"

  The shout had barely faded when the castle interior suddenly became frantic. A gruff voice echoed from within.

  "Wait a moment! I shall go and announce your arrival!"

  From atop the towering gate, soldiers armed with matchlock guns looked down intently at Kanbe'e. This was a castle in open rebellion; at any moment, those guns could be leveled at them. The sight tightened the knot of tension in Kanbe'e's chest.

  In less than ten minutes, the heavy gates groaned open.

  Stepping through, Kanbe'e saw the ground carpeted with fallen leaves—the deep crimson of zelkova, looking like splattered blood, and the withered yellow of ginkgo. To a casual observer, it might have seemed poetic, but to Kanbe'e, it felt like a sinister omen.

  The dry crunch of leaves under the boots of Kanbe'e, Zensuke Kuriyama, Tahe'e Mori, and Kuro'emon Inoue echoed through the unnervingly silent courtyard. As soon as they entered, his retainers were halted at the guard station.

  At that moment, a samurai stepped forward quietly from the inner depths. It was Shigenori Matazaemon Kato. Standing before Kanbe'e, he offered a single, deep bow. The cheerful light Kanbe'e remembered in his eyes was gone, replaced by a darkness like a thick, heavy mist.

  "I shall lead the way... Beyond this point is my lord’s sanctuary. Retainers are not permitted. Your companions must wait here."

  Matazaemon’s voice was low and damp, as if he were already mourning the dead. Zensuke instinctively reached for Kanbe'e’s sleeve.

  "My lord!"

  Kanbe'e silenced him with a sharp gesture of his hand.

  "Mr. Kato. Is Lord Murashige... in good health?"

  Matazaemon did not answer. He simply pointed silently toward the shadows stretching down the corridor.

  In late autumn, the chirping of insects had died away, leaving only the whistling wind. The passage, flanked by high stone walls and white plaster, was submerged in autumn shadows, cold and biting. With every step, the clamor of the outside world receded, replaced by a silence as heavy as death.

  While Zensuke and the others watched with anxious faces, Kanbe'e was led alone into the depths of Arioka Castle. He did not look back. He followed the back of the usher, walking deeper into the heart of the fortress.

  Having surrendered his sword, Kanbe'e walked the dimly lit hallway. The sound of his straw sandals clicked against the wooden floorboards. As he was led further in, he felt the dignity he had maintained on horseback being peeled away, layer by layer.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  An eerie dissonance filled the corridor. Places that should have displayed elegant furnishings were instead lined with sharpened spears and rugged shields, arranged with unsettling precision. Even the air smelled different. It wasn't the scent of expensive incense, but a mixture of old oil, damp earth, and something metallic—like the smell of rusting iron. It didn't feel like a castle preparing for war; it felt like the belly of a giant beast.

  (LMurashige... what on earth are you looking at in this castle?)

  With every step, the wooden floor groaned like a dying scream. That dry sound echoed loudly in the stillness, synchronizing with the thumping of Kanbe'e’s heart.

  When they reached the great hall, Murashige was not there. The usher simply said, "Lord Settsu-no-kami will arrive shortly," and vanished back the way they came.

  Left alone, Kanbe'e let his mind race through the possibilities. Even the worst-case scenario.

  As he waited, the face of his wife, Teru, flashed through his mind—the look she had when he told her he was going to Arioka Castle. A face that couldn't hide its shock and dread. She had always been his most trusted confidante, never wavering in her support. Kanbe'e had always sworn in his heart to protect her above all else.

  In an age where warriors usually took concubines to ensure as many heirs as possible, Kanbe'e had never taken another woman besides his legitimate wife. It was a rare case for that era.

  Next, his thoughts turned to his beloved son, Shojumaru. The ten-year-old boy would always run to him, shouting "Father! Father!" and leaning in with a spoiled grin to have his head patted. As an only son, he was the sole heir to the Kuroda line.

  Since last year, Shojumaru had been kept at Nagahama Castle as a hostage, raised under the care of Lord Hideyoshi. He was the living proof of Kanbe'e’s loyalty to the Oda clan. If Kanbe'e were to be branded a traitor, the boy’s life would be forfeit. This was why Kanbe'e could not easily turn his back on his mission.

  He could still feel the trembling of Teru’s shoulders as they watched Shojumaru depart for Nagahama. The chain known as a "hostage" had never felt heavier than it did now. Whenever he visited Nagahama, the innocent face of his son running toward him from afar was Kanbe'e’s only solace.

  In the corner of the hall, the flame of the lamp flickered, casting Kanbe'e’s shadow against the wall in a giant, distorted shape. In that silence, he caught a faint sound from the inner room.

  Click, click...

  The sound of something clashing. Or perhaps someone counting prayer beads? But the rhythm was uneven; at times it would accelerate as if in terror, then stop abruptly. Cold sweat trailed down Kanbe'e’s spine.

  The man he was about to face might no longer be Murashige Araki, the brilliant strategist with whom he once dreamed of unifying the land. Perhaps he had been swallowed by the monumental terror of Nobunaga, transforming into a "monster" whose soul had shattered in the dark.

  Outside the window, a crow let out an ominous cry and took flight.

  No matter what happened here, he had to return alive—for Teru, for Shojumaru, and for Hanbe'e Takenaka, the man who had spoken to him like an elder brother. Kanbe'e clenched his fists.

  Then, from the distance, he heard footsteps approaching.

  (He's here...)

  Kanbe'e’s expression hardened. He could not read the outcome of the negotiation that was about to begin.

  "Kanbe'e!"

  It was unmistakably the voice of Murashige Araki. The same voice that had shared sake and dreams in the camp that night. It carried a hint of exhaustion, but it was him.

  The sliding doors opened slowly. From the gap spilled the thick scent of incense and an obsessive, piercing glint of eyes shining in the gloom.

  "Murashige!"

  After so long, the two men met once more.

  Produced and written by a Japanese author, rooted in authentic Japanese history. Translated with the assistance of Gemini (AI).