Location: The banks of the Kiso River, Owari Province.
Current Date/Time: 1559. Late Summer. Early Morning.
The cold struck.
It hit the center of his chest like the flat edge of a steel beam, driving the remaining oxygen from his lungs in a single, violent spasm. Pitch-black water flooded his open mouth, the heavy current forcing its way down his throat. The river tasted of mud, pine needles, and raw iron.
Soma Kurogane tumbled end over end in the dark. The pressure of the rapids pinned his arms to his ribs. His lungs went tight, refusing to take in air. The freezing water seemed to squeeze his bones, pulling all the heat out of his fingers and toes to keep his chest alive. The roaring chaos of the water faded into a thin, sharp ringing deep in his ears.
A hand locked onto his collar.
Thick fingers dug through his heavy wool jacket and grabbed the fabric. The grip felt like an iron clamp. Soma’s forward momentum stopped instantly, the sudden halt nearly tearing his shoulder out of its socket.
With a massive heave, the grip yanked his waterlogged weight upward, throwing him through the surface of the river.
Air hit his face.
Soma’s chest spasmed. He coughed violently, vomiting a stream of muddy river water and grit onto the stones. He collapsed onto his side, his hands digging into the wet gravel.
A heavy, radiating heat washed over him, cutting through the biting wind.
Someone massive was kneeling right over him, blocking the cold draft. Soma blinked, his eyes stinging and full of wet sand. The thick morning fog rolled off the churning river, blurring everything into a gray wall.
Through the fog, he could only see a broad silhouette. The person breathed in slow, deep drafts. A calloused thumb brushed the wet hair away from Soma's forehead. The touch lingered for a fraction of a second.
Clack.
The sharp strike of iron hitting stone vibrated through the gravel right by Soma’s face.
The silhouette flinched. The heat was gone instantly.
Sand crunched as footsteps scrambled away with wild, quiet speed. Soma pushed himself up on his elbows and wiped his eyes, staring into the gray mist.
There was nothing. It had disappeared.
A single, deep footprint remained in the wet mud beside his shoulder, the river water rapidly seeping into the heel print before the thick fog rolled over it, erasing the path.
Soma dropped his head back against the stones, his chest heaving as he pulled ragged, desperate gasps of air through his teeth. The freezing wind sliced right through his soaked cotton t-shirt and stiff denim jeans.
For three minutes, he just lay there, the heavy thud of his own lungs matching the roar of the Kiso River behind him. The rapids battered the shoreline, churning white water against the dark boulders.
He forced his eyes open.
The storm had passed. The sky held the pale, bruised gray of early dawn. He pulled air through his nose, tasting the copper of blood from a cut on his lip.
He smelled wet dirt, pine needles, and the faint, bitter stink of woodsmoke. There was no smell of hot asphalt. No diesel exhaust. No concrete. Just raw, wild earth.
"Alive," he rasped.
The word scraped his throat and died instantly in the roar of the water.
He pushed his palms flat against the cold stones, the sharp shale digging into his skin. He braced his arms and forced his chest off the rocks, his shoulders shaking under the load. His head spun. He locked his elbows and waited for the ground to stop tilting.
He looked for his truck. He scanned the trees for the concrete pillars of the overpass, or the twisted frame of his SUV. He looked up at the sky, searching for high-tension power lines.
Nothing.
No paved roads. No rusted steel guardrails. No retaining walls.
A wall of massive cedar trees towered a hundred feet into the gray sky, their trunks caked in thick green moss. Exposed root systems twisted like gnarled fingers into the rocky, untamed soil. The terrain showed zero signs of modern grading or machinery.
A smooth black box rested twenty yards down the bank.
The hard-shell suitcase was wedged tight between two wet boulders. The river was slapping against the plastic, leaving a layer of brown mud on the clean, engineered shape. It looked completely alien against the wild riverbank.
Soma crawled.
His legs were numb, his wet sneakers sliding on the loose shale. He dropped to his belly and dragged his weight forward, digging his fingernails into the mud. He pulled himself over the sharp stones, inch by agonizing inch, his breath pluming in the cold air.
He reached the boulders and grabbed the rubber handle. The thick, manufactured plastic felt real, grounding his racing pulse. The latches were closed. The seal was tight. The gear inside was dry.
Snap.
A branch snapped in the trees.
Soma went rigid, a hard jolt of heat shooting through his cold bones. He scrambled around, his knees grinding into the gravel, his hand dropping to his waist for a tool or a knife. Empty air.
A massive warhorse stood at the edge of the woods.
It was a huge, solid beast, its black coat wet with dew, steam blowing from its flared nostrils. The animal stood completely still, its dark eyes tracking Soma from the shadows of the branches.
A rider sat in the saddle.
He wore an indigo silk robe that draped over his broad shoulders. He didn't have the shaved head from the old textbooks; his dark hair was pulled back in a high, messy topknot. His eyes were gold-flecked, locking onto Soma with a flat, unblinking stare.
This was Oda Nobunaga.
He held a long, curved wooden bow in his left hand, the tip resting near his iron stirrup. His right hand lay loose on his thigh, his thick, calloused fingers relaxed. He looked completely at ease, like a man who knew he had the physical force to kill whatever was in front of him.
“You did not drown.”
His deep voice cut through the roar of the water. He shifted his weight, the saddle leather creaking in the quiet.
“And that.” The rider pointed the bow at the black box in the rocks. “Is no stone. It has the shape of a rock, but the skin of a beetle.”
He tapped the horse's ribs with his heels.
Clack. Clack.
The hooves clattered against the stones as the beast stepped out of the trees, its massive bulk blocking the weak morning sun as it closed the distance. The beast stopped three feet from Soma, the rider towering over him.
Soma stayed on his knees, his muscles locking tight to fight the shiver. He ground his teeth, forcing his chest to stay still to hide his fear.
The rider looked him up and down, checking him like an inspector checking a shipment. He stared at the wet jeans, the white rubber soles of his sneakers, and the heavy wool of his jacket. He looked at Soma's hands, pale, clean, and free of any spear scars or shovel callouses.
“You look like a corpse pulled from the current,” the rider said, tilting his head. “You wear strange clothes. You have the hands of a man who has never held a weapon. Yet you sit in the mud and do not weep.”
The horse stepped closer. A heavy smell washed over Soma, raw horse sweat, old iron armor, and the sweet, woody stink of incense clinging to the blue silk.
“Tell me, stranger. What is in the black box? Is it something I can use, or do I have to cut you open to find out?”
The gold eyes narrowed, the casual look vanishing into a cold threat.
Soma kept his eyes locked on the rider's face. He could picture his suitcase, the metal frame of his laptop, his drafting tools, his portable equipment and electronics, and his structural engineering books.
He placed his hands on the wet stones and pushed himself up.
His thighs burned, his legs shaking under his own weight, but he forced his knees to lock. He stood straight, widening his feet to keep from falling over, and stared back at the Warlord like a foreman looking at a bad support column.
“My tools,” Soma said, his voice rough. “Everything I need to build.”
The rider stared. The cold wind whipped the mist around the horse's legs.
Then a slow, wide grin broke across the rider's dark face, showing bright white teeth.
“Bold,” he said. “A freezing man offering me tools instead of begging for his life.”
He swung his heavy, leather-clad leg over the saddle and dropped to the stones with a thud. He stepped forward until his boots almost touched Soma's wet shoes.
The heat off his chest hit Soma like a furnace, cutting through the cold mist.
“Let’s see if your work is worth your skin,” the Warlord said.
He reached out and grabbed the rubber handle of the suitcase with his left hand. At the same second, his right hand shot forward and clamped onto Soma's bruised right shoulder.
His rough fingers dug straight through the heavy wool of the jacket, grinding right into the sore muscle. He squeezed, checking the bone and the strength of the joint, lifting the heavy suitcase from the mud at the same time.
Soma's wet shoes slid in the gravel. The pain shot straight down his arm, a hot, blinding flash that made his head spin. His shoulder screamed as he fought the Warlord's downward pull.
Soma locked his jaw, anchoring his feet in the stones. He stared back into the gold-flecked eyes, meeting the crushing grip with absolute silence.
The Warlord's grin widened.
Soma stood rigid in the wind, his shoulder throbbing as the heavy gray fog rolled over the riverbank, locking them both against the ancient forest.