Location: Guest Quarters, Kiyosu Castle.
Current Date/Time: Late Night, Late Summer, 1559.
Night in Kiyosu Castle was completely dead. Without the background hum of power grids or city traffic, the silence felt massive. The only sounds left were the constant buzz of cicadas in the trees and a stray bullfrog out in the mud of the moat.
It had been a few days since Soma forced the carpenter guild to use his standardized cedar measuring sticks, and the sheer volume of longhand structural math was catching up to him. Inside the room, the heavy summer heat clung to the cedar walls, staying thick long after sunset.
A single andon lamp flickered on the low table, throwing long shadows against the paper screens. The small workspace smelled of fresh wood shavings, damp earth, and the dry, familiar paper of his open Moleskine notebook.
Soma sat in seiza, forcing his tired back muscles to hold his weight. The indigo silk kosode kept the stagnant heat locked against his body, and sweat trickled down his neck, pooling at his collarbone. He rolled his right shoulder to test his range of motion. The deep ache from the gun's kick had cleared up over the last few days, leaving nothing but a faint, yellow-green stain on his skin.
CHIRP. SQUEAK.
A sharp, high-pitched squeak from the uguisubari nightingale floor echoed down the outside hallway. It was just a single, hesitant sound, followed by dead silence. A regular guard detail would have made a steady, rhythmic squeaking as heavy boots hit the center of the wood. This was different, someone was stepping right on the edges of the floorboards to keep the planks from rubbing.
A second later, the heavy cedar door slid open with a faint scrape. Kinoshita Tokichiro slipped through the gap, dropping straight onto his hands and knees on the tatami. The wiry peasant moved fast, staying low to dodge the creaky parts of the track. Caked in gray mud and fresh sawdust, he smelled like the hot moat outside. He looked completely wiped out from the day shift, but his chest heaved with a frantic, tightly coiled energy.
“Nobody is watching the site, Gishi-sama,” Tokichiro whispered, his breath short. He stayed on his knees but kept his head up, looking right at Soma. “The inner gate guards are distracted with dice and warm wine. I came straight from the worksite.”
“Stand up,” Soma told him, his voice steady. He ignored his sore muscles and grabbed his metal drafting pen from the table. “Skip the formalities. We're losing time, and the deadline is approaching. Do you have the evidence?”
The parchment was a rough, hand-drawn map of the western wall. It didn't have any of the exact scaling or clean grid lines of Soma’s own blueprints, but for a field sketch, it got the point across.
“I checked every single log the crew pulled out of the ditch, Gishi-sama,” Tokichiro said, his voice low and tight. He tapped a calloused finger against a series of heavy charcoal dots marked along the perimeter line. “I waited until Genjo and the rest went to the sheds for dinner. Then I got into the scrap pile and scraped the muck away from the bad spots with my knife. The cuts are right where you said they'd be. Deep, straight nicks in the wood.”
Soma leaned over the table, his eyes tracing the rough ink marks. He braced his weight with one hand flat against the wood, ignoring the dull ache in his sore shoulder. The heavy summer heat in the room didn't move as he stared at the layout, matching Tokichiro’s charcoal dots directly against the framing blueprints in his own notebook.
“This isn't a random mix,” Soma muttered to himself, his voice completely flat as he stared down at the layout. He picked up his pen and clicked the top.
The small snap of the plastic spring was loud in the quiet room. He brought the fine point down onto the rough paper.
“Look at the groupings, Tokichiro,” Soma said, drawing a straight line to connect three of the charcoal dots near the top edge of the map. He moved his wrist, drawing another line through a tight cluster of five dots near the bottom flank. “If this were just some lazy worker trying to stall the job out of spite, he would have nicked the logs at random when they came off the supply wagons. He would have hit the straight wall sections because those are the easiest logs to get to on the ground.”
Tokichiro stared at the black ink lines connecting the marks on his sketch, his brow furrowing as he looked at the pattern. “But the cuts aren't on the straight walls, Gishi-sama. They’re right where the corner turns toward the water.”
“They are grouped right under the main load-bearing posts for the watchtowers,” Soma said, his tone dropping. He tapped the tip of his pen against the thickest cluster of charcoal marks. “This was planned out. Whoever cut the grain didn’t just want to ruin some wood; they wanted the specific pillars holding the most weight to give out at the same time. They are taking out the anchor points.”
Soma closed his eyes for a second, picturing the whole frame of the wall. Back when he was a junior field manager handling concrete pours in Tokyo, he’d caught a bad supplier leaving out structural steel in a foundation to skim off the budget. He knew exactly how a rigged failure worked. This setup in the mud was just as calculated.
By weakening the posts right under the heavy watchtowers, the saboteur made sure that when the core wood rotted out from the moisture, the towers wouldn’t just slump. They would tip over sideways, pulling the good sections of the straight wall right down into the mud with them.
“The cuts are right where the leverage hits hardest,” Soma said, looking up at the peasant in the dim light. “If a crew hits the straight wall with a ram, our interlocking joints will distribute the weight and hold. But if they hit the base of the towers where the wood is hollowed out, the whole framing will buckle. The towers will fall outward across the moat, acting like a ready-made bridge for an army to walk right over the water.”
Tokichiro swallowed hard, a bead of sweat cutting through the dirt on his nose. He looked down at the straight lines Soma had drawn across the paper, the reality of the trap hitting him. “They’re building a ramp for the enemy, right under his nose.”
“This isn't a carpenter’s mistake, Tokichiro,” Soma said, his face going tight as he stared at the map. He kept his voice steady despite the sudden knot forming in his stomach. “And it’s not just some worker vandalizing the site. This is a defect introduced by someone who knows what they're doing. Whoever is holding that blade understands how to use weight against a structure.”
The quiet came back into the room, heavy with the reality of the ink marks on the table. To survive out here, Soma had relied on being the only guy who knew how to calculate loads and balance forces. Finding a saboteur who used those same rules to tear things down meant he wasn't just fighting the weather and the mud anymore. He was dealing with a professional.
“We have to take this map to the Lord of Owari right now, Builder!” Tokichiro whispered, his hands twitching toward the parchment. “If he knows the towers are rigged, he’ll send his guard down to the trenches before sunrise. He’ll break the whole guild until someone talks.”
“No,” Soma said cleanly.
His left hand came down flat over the map, pinning the rough paper to the desk.
“Look at the actual workflow, Tokichiro,” Soma said, his voice dropping low. “Lord Nobunaga doesn't recognize or willing to hear details. He handles problems with a sword. If we show him this layout without giving him a specific name, he’s just going to clear the board. He’ll execute Genjo and every single carpenter on the crew to make sure he hits the spy. Even you, Tokichiro. If he kills the labor force, what happens to castle defenses?”
Tokichiro froze, his hands dropping away from the table. The frantic energy drained out of his face all at once, leaving his mouth slightly open. He looked down at his own mud-caked fingers, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Working in the background of the castle was one thing, but realization hit him fast: to a warlord, a peasant coordinator from the pits was just as disposable as a rotted log.
“Even... me,” Tokichiro whispered, his fingers curling into tight fists against his thighs. His small frame went rigid. “I’m just the shadow tracking the wood. He wouldn't care who held the knife. He'd just clean the ditch.”
Tokichiro stared at Soma’s pale, unyielding hand covering the map. The peasant’s sharp mind quickly caught up to the engineer’s cold logic. “The worksite dies. The men who know how to cut your geometric joints will be headless in the courtyard. The wall will be weak when an army invades us.”
“Exactly,” Soma said, lifting his hand. He clicked the pen shut.
The small plastic click was quiet in the room. He kept his palm flat over the rough map, holding the paper down against the desk.
“We don't take this to the inner guard,” Soma said, his voice level. “We handle this problem ourselves. The damage is bad, but until the guy touches the new beams we’re dropping tomorrow, the wall isn't going to fall for now. We just need to control the site.”
“The Sovereign doesn't like blind spots, Gishi-sama,” Tokichiro warned, his voice a low whisper as his knees shifted against the rough straw mat. “If he finds out the wood was cut and we sat on the numbers, he won't care about your math. He’ll take my head and throw you right back into the river.”
“He won’t be blind, Tokichiro. He’ll get a finished solution,” Soma countered, his mind mapping out a fix.
He picked up his metal drafting pen and pointed the tip directly at the thickest cluster of charcoal marks near the top edge of the map.
“That’s right,” Soma said, nodding. “The guy has a deadline. He must ruin the new foundation before we finish the wall. He’ll see that pile, know it’s the main support material, and move in to cut it.”
Soma reached down, folding the rough paper into a tight square. He slid it deep into the breast of his indigo silk shirt, hiding it out of sight.
“Get some sleep, Tokichiro,” Soma told him, adjusting his sash. “Take three hours. When the sun goes down tomorrow, you isolate that bait pile. Don't give Genjo a reason. You're the foreman; you just tell him where to put the wood.”
“I’ll set the trap, Gishi-sama,” Tokichiro muttered, giving a quick bow before backing toward the cedar door. The wiry peasant slipped through the gap, disappearing into the dark hallway without a sound.
Soma got to his feet, his sore core muscles stiff from the long stretch in seiza. The heavy silk shirt stuck to his damp skin in the hot room. He walked to the entryway to make sure it was closed, stepping out onto the polished cedar planks of the outside hallway.
CHIRP. SQUEAK.
The wood screamed under a heavy footstep right next to him. The floorboards flexed hard under a massive weight.
Soma froze.
The air in the dark corridor turned blistering hot all at once. Oda Nobunaga stepped out from the deep shadows of the roof eaves.
The man was a massive wall of dark gray silk and broad, scarred muscle, completely blocking the weak moonlight in the hall. He smelled of horse sweat, musk, and the heavy, burnt sting of agarwood incense that choked the night air.
Soma gritted his teeth, his hands balling into fists at his sides. His chest tightened at the sudden shock of the warlord’s entrance, but he locked his jaw, refusing to flinch.
“You’re walking the halls when you should be resting that broken shoulder, Ghost,” Nobunaga rumbled. His deep voice vibrated straight through the timber of the floorboards and up into Soma’s sore knees. It wasn't a question; it was a blunt observation.
Soma forced himself to look the warlord right in the eye. Nobunaga’s pupils were wide, catching the amber glare from the open door. The warlord stepped up, crowding him completely. The heat radiating off his broad chest hit Soma’s neck, breaking out a fresh wave of sweat under his collar.
“Lord Nobunaga,” Soma said, his voice steady. He gave a short, stiff bow, his mind racing to find a way to redirect the attention. “I was checking the entryway. The room is still holding the day's heat, and I needed to shift the screens to get some air flowing.”
Nobunaga didn't buy the excuse. His gaze dropped from Soma’s face to the front of his indigo shirt, his eyes instantly tracking the slight, sharp ridge made by the folded paper under the silk.
Without a word, Nobunaga reached out. His rough, calloused hand came forward fast, heavy and hard, crowding right into Soma's space. He planted his large palm flat against the center of Soma’s chest, pinning the hidden paper right against his ribs.
The push was blunt and heavy. The heat of Nobunaga’s hand came right through the silk layers, pressing down over Soma’s racing heartbeat. Soma’s shoulders went rigid.
“You hold papers to your ribs like a merchant hiding coin, Ghost,” Nobunaga whispered, leaning in close until his breath hit the side of Soma’s face. The smell of his incense was thick. “Tell me. What numbers are you guarding so hard in the dark that the Monkey must run off into the night?”
He holds papers like a thief, and his chest is pounding against my hand like a caught bird, Nobunaga thought, watching him closely. He's keeping a secret. I'll let him run his play for now and see what he does with it.
Soma's breath caught. He couldn't make up a total lie; the warlord was too sharp to look past it, but handing over the map meant a mass execution that would stall the job. He had to shift the focus to the raw materials.
“I’m sorting out the material logistics, My Lord,” Soma stated, forcing his voice to stay dead level. He didn't pull back from the heavy palm on his chest. “The carpenters are working fast enough, but the log supply is inconsistent. The timber pulled out of the river holds too much water because of the summer humidity. I had Tokichiro checking the timber pile, so we don't drop your main walls onto wet, soft cedar.”
Nobunaga’s thumb pressed down slowly into the fabric, feeling the stiff edges of the paper square underneath. He tilted his head, a dark grin showing through the pressure. He didn't believe the story, but he saw the stubborn grit in the engineer's stance.
“Wet cedar,” Nobunaga repeated, testing the phrasing. He dragged his thumb slowly across Soma’s chest, a heavy, testing weight to see if the guy would flinch or buckle. “You watch the wood so closely, Ghost. Just make sure you don't let the rot take the whole yard while you're busy drawing your lines.”
The warlord let go, stepping back into the open space. He turned his broad shoulders, his dark gray silk robes rustling in the quiet breezeway, and walked off into the dark without another word
Soma stood perfectly still in the stifling heat, his heart hammering against his ribs, completely aware that Nobunaga was already hunting the same scent he was.