Location: Guest Quarters and Inner Sanctum, Kiyosu Castle.
Current Date/Time: Nightfall. Late Summer, 1559.
The humid night trapped the heat inside the wooden room. There was no hum of a power grid, no light from a window, just a heavy, silent blackness that smelled of damp earth and smoke.
Soma sat on the straw mats, hugging his ribs. He breathed in slowly, counting to four, then letting it out to quiet his jumping nerves. The dried ginger paste on his shoulder pulled tight against his raw skin with every breath.
A sharp scrape broke the silence as the door slid open.
Flickering amber light cut across the floor. Toichi knelt in the doorway.
The old man pressed his forehead to the wood. His scarred hands trembled as he held out a pile of dark clothes, his eyes glued to the floorboards, too cautious to look up.
"Honored Guest," Toichi rasped. "The Lord of Owari commands this delivery. The aizome silk kosode robe and the kukuri-hakama trousers. You are to change before you walk the inner halls."
"Leave it on the mat," Soma said. "Thank you."
Toichi dropped the garments onto the straw. He scrambled backward, pulling the cedar door shut along its track.
Soma forced his legs to straighten. His thighs screamed, the deep, hot ache from yesterday's heavy labor flaring back to life and making his knees tremble as he stood. He reached down to the waist of his rust-brown robe, his fingers finding the coarse knot holding it together.
With a sharp tug, he unfastened the tie. The stiff, sweat-soaked hemp fell away, pooling around his bare feet in a heavy, damp heap.
Getting the sleeves off was a slow, agonizing process. He had to gently ease the fabric down his left arm first, using it to slide the shirt off his bad shoulder. Despite his care, the rough fibers dragged directly across the dried poultice. Soma hissed through his teeth, his eyes watering as the dried herbs pulled at his raw skin. He let the dirty shirt drop to the floor. The cold, damp draft of the castle hit his bare chest, raising instant goosebumps.
He picked up the dark indigo silk robe Toichi had brought. Sliding his arms into the sleeves was an incredible relief, the fabric was heavy and cool, gliding smoothly over his bruised shoulders without catching. He stepped into the baggy trousers, pulling them up and tying the waist cords tight to completely hide the stiff cotton of his loincloth.
Walking, though, was a nightmare. With his core and thighs so stiff, a normal stride was impossible. He had to move with awkward, deliberate care, planting his heel first, slowly shifting his weight over his hip, and bracing his ankle to absorb the impact before he dared to take another step.
CHIRP. SQUEAK.
The sound was sharp and metallic. The uguisubari. The nightingale floors.
Soma kept his shoulder pressed against the vertical cedar pillars, hugging the absolute edge of the hallway. The center of the corridor was a minefield of creaks, but the wood right against the wall held the least flex. He slid his bare foot sideways, his toes searching for the solid joists. His trembling thighs burned, the muscle fatigue from his long hours of labor and rigid kneeling turning his legs to water. Just two more steps.
Then, his right thigh went completely dead.
The muscle spasmed, his knee buckled, and his heel came down hard on the center of a cypress board.
Skree-ch-ch.
The sharp, high-pitched screech of iron rubbing against heavy nails pierced the quiet hall. The floorboards practically sang under his weight, the rhythmic chirps echoing down the dark corridor, instantly broadcasting his clumsy approach.
Soma didn't wait. He forced his stiff legs forward, reaching the massive cedar doors at the end of the hall. The sweet, heavy scent of burning agarwood, mixed with the sharp tang of oiled iron, seeped through the cracks. He pressed his left hand flat against the heavy timber and pushed, stepping directly into the warm, amber glow.
Soma stepped into the brightly lit anteroom, but before he could cross the threshold, the quiet clink of armor cut him off. A guard clad in black-lacquered plates stepped from the shadows, his hand resting flat against the hilt of his long sword.
The guard’s gaze swept over Soma’s new indigo silk robe, cold, sharp, and lingering a second too long on his stiff, sore posture, before he slid the massive gold-leaf screen open.
"The builder, Kurogane Soma, awaits your command, My Lord," the guard announced, his deep voice carrying a flat, absolute authority. He glanced back at Soma, his expression hardening. "Step forward. Kneel and bow."
Soma swallowed, his throat dry. He forced his aching legs forward, crossing into the chamber, and stopped dead.
Oda Nobunaga sat in the center of the room.
The warlord wore a loose, dark gray robe left completely unfastened. His broad chest and stomach were mapped with silvered scars, the deep, puckered indents of old arrow wounds catching the flickering candlelight. He sat with his knees spread wide, claiming every inch of the room. The dark silk draped heavily over his muscular thighs, leaving the deep, shadowed apex of his lap exposed to the warm light.
Soma’s jaw locked. The moment his eyes landed on the man, the air vanished from his lungs, replaced by a sudden, suffocating warmth. A wave of adrenaline surged up his neck, sending his heart hammering so violently against his ribs that his chest physically ached. Sweat pricked instantly beneath his new silk.
Get a grip, Soma thought, his mind desperately clawing for control, trying to run a diagnostic on his own short-circuiting nerves. Calm the pulse. Drop the heart rate. Do not let him see you sweat.
He forced his body down, his stiff knees grinding into the straw as he slid his hands forward. He bent into a deep, formal bow, pressing his forehead inches from the cold wood. He stared unblinkingly at the pale grain of the tatami, waiting for the frantic roar of blood in his ears to quiet down.
"Lord Nobunaga," Soma said, keeping his voice as flat and professional as if he were presenting to a board of directors back home. "I appreciate the clothes. But I’m here to retrieve my equipment."
Nobunaga let out a low rumble deep in his chest, a vibration Soma could feel through the cedar floorboards. The warlord kept his robes parted, leaning his head back as his gold-flecked eyes mapped the tight, rigid line of the engineer’s shoulders.
"You wear the indigo well, Ghost," Nobunaga said, pointing a lazy hand toward the dark corner of the room. "Go on. The beast is waiting."
Soma pushed himself up from his bow, his thighs instantly flaring with a dull, hot ache. Keeping his eyes locked on the matte-black shell of his Samsonite suitcase, he walked across the room, giving the warlord as wide a berth as possible.
"You walk like a man treading on broken glass," Nobunaga observed. The silk rustled as he shifted his weight. "Does the new silk not soothe the cracks?"
"Lifting that heavy gate completely trashed my thighs, Lord Nobunaga," Soma replied. He knelt beside the suitcase, keeping his back to the room. He pressed his left hand against the cold, familiar plastic. "I just need some normal recovery time."
"I see a man who can barely cross a room, yet claims he will rebuild my walls," Nobunaga challenged. His low growl vibrated directly against Soma’s spine. "Open the black shell, Ghost. Let me see the tools a broken builder needs to survive the night."
Soma shifted his weight onto his knees, the bitter tang of courtyard ash still dry on his tongue. He reached out, his fingers finding the familiar, cold plastic shell of his suitcase. Even in this castle, he kept it locked; the 21st century was too dangerous to leave open to curious hands.
He found the brass dials of the combination lock by touch, spinning the numbers.
Click. Click. Click.
The internal latch gave a familiar, satisfying pop. Soma grabbed the zipper pulls and slid them smoothly along the track.
Zzzzzzt.
As the lid fell back, the scent of his old life washed over him, the clean, artificial drift of laundry detergent, nylon, and the faint ozone of his electronics. It was his only remaining sanctuary; a quiet reminder of a world built on logic.
Without hesitation, he reached past the cold aluminum casing of his laptop, his hand going straight to the side mesh pocket. He didn't need to search. He pulled out the three things he needed: a white plastic bottle of ibuprofen, a tube of face wash, and his black Moleskine notebook with the drafting pen still clipped to its spine. He clutched them to his chest like an anchor.
Then, the back of his neck went hot.
Soma’s breath hitched. Nobunaga was standing right behind him. The warlord had crossed the creak-less border of the tatami mats without making a single sound. His massive shadow swallowed the candlelight, the sheer physical heat of his body pressing against Soma’s spine like an open furnace.
Soma’s core muscles spasmed. He locked his spine, suppressing the pulse in his neck. He turned his head, looking over his shoulder.
Nobunaga towered over him. The dark silk kosode hung open, displaying the scarred muscle of his abdomen inches from Soma's face.
"You dig through the entrails of the beast with shaking hands, Ghost," Nobunaga rumbled. The tectonic vibration traveled from his chest into Soma’s shoulder blades. "What do you pull from its belly that you hide against your own?"
"I am securing maintenance supplies, Lord Nobunaga," Soma explained. He held out his hands, offering the items for inspection. He kept his vocabulary grounded. "The hard recoil from the matchlock damaged the tissue in my shoulder. I need chemical stabilizers to reduce the swelling."
Nobunaga stared at the objects in the engineer’s palms. The Warlord reached out, closing his leather-rough fingers over the white pill bottle.
The Warlord's fingers scraped audibly against the smooth, unyielding plastic. Nobunaga squeezed his fist. The polymer yielded elastically, bowing inward under the pressure, but refused to fracture. He shook it, listening to the dry, artificial rattle of the tablets inside.
"The Nanban foreign traders bring vessels of glass to my ports," Nobunaga murmured. He rotated the bottle in the amber light. "It is a strange texture, like cured leather, yet it holds the shape of a stone. It possesses no seams."
"It is a manufactured polymer, My Lord," Soma said. "We use it to protect sensitive assets from water and impact. It absorbs force without shattering."
Nobunaga traced the label with his thumb. The chemical ingredients were written in a phonetic script, but the medical warning labels contained standard Kanji. The Warlord’s eyes narrowed.
"Pain," Nobunaga read aloud. "Medicine. You carry relief in stones that yield to the touch. Are these from the country of Ming?"
The Warlord dropped the bottle into Soma’s hand. He picked up the matte plastic tube. Nobunaga squeezed the material, mapping the viscous gel shifting inside the chamber. He cataloged the physics of the material, assessing the tensile limits of the synthetic skin.
"No, My Lord, they are from homeland. They are tools for hygiene and physical recovery," Soma added. His breathing turned shallow. The heat radiating from the Warlord caused a layer of sweat to form beneath his indigo silk. "The notebook is for drafting. I cannot calculate your defenses without mapping the whole area."
Nobunaga held the tube in his palm. He stood up slowly, drawing himself to his full height.
As he straightened, he let his dark robe slide off his left shoulder. The fabric caught at his elbow, exposing half of his chest to the warm torchlight. White, jagged scars cut across the dark, heavy muscle of his chest and ribs, a map of a lifetime of violence. He looked down, his massive frame towering over the engineer.
"I see," Nobunaga stated, his voice commanding the entire room. He tossed the plastic tube onto the tatami beside Soma’s knee. "You may take these curiosities. I allow you to mend your cracked foundation with your yielding stones and your foreign paste."
The sight of that raw, heavily scarred chest tore right through Soma's remaining composure. His breath caught, trapped tight in his throat. Adrenaline and a sudden, fierce rush of heat tangled in his gut, sending his heart hammering frantically against his ribs.
He ground his back teeth together, terrified that the warlord would look down and see the sudden flush creeping up his neck. Desperate for any kind of anchor, Soma locked his fingers around the cold, ridged aluminum of his drafting pen, squeezing the metal so hard it bit into his palm, using the sharp pain to keep from unraveling completely.
Keep it together, Soma told himself, his mind screaming at him to move. Take the win. Just get out of here.
He drew a slow, deliberate breath through his nose, trying to quiet the frantic thudding in his ribs. He gathered the plastic bottle, the tube of face wash, and his Moleskine, tucking them securely against his side.
Pushing all his weight onto his uninjured left arm, he shoved himself up from the cedar floorboards. His thighs instantly caught fire, his knees trembling violently under his own weight, but he clamped down on the pain and forced his legs to lock. He pinned his eyes strictly to the dark gray silk collar on Nobunaga’s right shoulder. He refused to let his gaze drift even an inch to the left, where the warlord's bare, scarred chest radiated heat in the dim light.
"Thank you for letting me keep these, Lord Nobunaga," Soma said, his voice flat and perfectly controlled.
He bent down, his muscles screaming at the movement, and dragged the zipper of his suitcase shut. With a quick flick of his thumb, he spun the brass dials, locking the 21st century away. He offered a quick, rigid bow, keeping his head down. "I’ll have the designs for the western wall finished by dawn. With your permission, I’ll take my leave."
Nobunaga didn't move. He stood over him like a pillar of black iron, silent and unyielding in the flickering andon lamp.
"Go, Ghost," Nobunaga commanded. A dark smirk curled the corner of his mouth, his gold-flecked eyes tracking the rigid, wooden stiffness in Soma’s shoulders. "Mend your flesh. The earth of Owari does not wait for ghosts to heal."
Soma stepped backward, one slow, agonizing inch at a time. He kept his eyes locked on the warlord’s face until the heel of his bare foot bumped against the raised wooden track of the door. He reached behind himself, slid the screen open, and let the cold, damp draft of the corridor hit the sweat soaking the back of his neck.
He stepped through and slid the heavy cedar door shut until it settled with a solid, final click.
CHIRP.
The nightingale floor shrieked in the moon lit hallway. With every limping, painful step Soma took back to his quarters, the hidden iron clamps groaned beneath the cypress boards, broadcasting his slow retreat into the dark.