Location: The flatland road to Kiyosu Castle, Owari Province.
Current Date/Time: 1559. Late Summer. Late Morning.
Hooves struck the wet earth.
Every strike of the heavy hooves rattled up through the wooden saddle, sending dull shocks straight to the base of Soma's spine. The vibrations rattled his teeth. Mud and river silt coated his eyelashes, drying into a hard crust that glued his eyelids shut.
CREAK.
Stiff leather groaned beside his ear.
A heavy band tightened around his chest. The high wooden front of the saddle dug into his hip. The solid, hot chest of the Warlord pressed against his back. A thick hauling strap wrapped his chest, binding his arms flat against his sides. The stiff hide squeezed his lungs. Each breath required a deliberate, painful fight to expand his ribs against the unyielding leather.
The heat off the man behind him was like a heavy furnace, drying the moisture trapped against Soma’s skin until it steamed.
A rough wool blanket draped his shoulders, smelling of wet sheep, damp soot, and old woodsmoke.
Beneath the wool, his clothes felt like sandpaper. The Kiso River had soaked his stiff raw denim jeans, and the violent current had driven fine, sharp sand deep into the cotton weave. The freezing mountain wind had dried the fabric, turning the heavy denim stiff and abrasive.
With every bouncing stride of the horse, the stiffened seams ground against his inner thighs, rubbing the skin raw.
It was a slow, burning friction. His body reacted anyway. The steady, rhythmic bounce of the saddle and the constant rubbing of the wet denim triggered a mindless physical response.
His flesh swelled, the heavy erection pressing directly against the sand-crusted zipper of his jeans. Every sudden jolt of the horse drove the rough fabric against his raw skin. A sharp, burning throb pulsed through his pelvis.
Soma gritted his teeth, a sharp hiss escaping his locked jaw. He fought the sudden rush of blood, commanding his body to back down. He tightened his stomach, furious that his flesh reacted to the simple, stupid rubbing of the ride.
"Easy, ghost."
The voice didn't travel through the air. The low rumble started in the thick chest pressed against Soma’s shoulder blades, traveling straight through his bones.
Oda Nobunaga didn't ease up an inch.
Soma forced his eyes open. The landscape passed in a blurred run of brown mud and dark pine branches. The steep hills were gone now. The land had flattened out into a massive, wet plain of low brush and flooded dirt.
CHUF.
The black beast snorted, throwing a cloud of steam into the damp air.
Soma shifted his hips, trying to wedge a fraction of an inch of space between his lower back and the Warlord’s thighs to stop the agonizing friction in his lap.
The leather strap bit into his collarbone, holding him completely still.
Nobunaga shifted his weight, driving his heavy thighs forward. He absorbed the bounce of the horse and pinned Soma tighter against the high wooden front of the saddle.
Nobunaga’s thick arm tightened across Soma’s stomach, his large, calloused hand sliding down to press flat over the wet, stiff denim of his jeans.
"Your blood returns," Nobunaga said, the low rumble carrying a dark amusement straight through Soma’s spine. "I feel the heat of your life hammering beneath my hand. It is a restless, twitching thing."
"It's just the rubbing of the wood," Soma said, his vocal cords scraping together. He kept his voice flat and level, refusing to turn his head to look at the man holding him. "It's a physical reaction, adrenaline and high heart rate. It doesn't mean anything."
"I do not know your strange words," Nobunaga said. "But I know when a man is ready for the hunt or the futon. You speak of your own flesh as if it belongs to a stranger. Do all ghosts deny their own bodies?"
The horse crested a muddy ridge, and Soma’s head swam. The heavy leather strap looped twice around his chest, pinning his elbows tight against his ribs. He was just secured cargo.
"You tied me too tight," Soma rasped, his lungs squeezing as the horse took a downward stride. "I can't get a full breath."
"I know the weight of my property," Nobunaga said.
He leaned forward, his lips brushing the cold rim of Soma’s ear. The scent of him drowned the morning air, the heavy, salty smell of his sweat bleeding from his robes.
"If I left you loose, you would slide from the saddle," Nobunaga whispered. "You would break in the mud. I do not let my prizes get bruised by the dirt."
"I'm not a prize."
Soma forced his mind into the same flat, cold focus he used during hostile site audits. He locked his back rigid against the Warlord’s chest.
"I'm a builder," Soma said. "If you want me to work, you treat me like a specialist. Not baggage."
"You are exactly what I say you are," Nobunaga said, his voice quiet and absolute.
"You were a drowning spirit in the river. Now, you are a ghost in my saddle. I took your black box, and I took you. You belong to Owari now. You belong to the Oda."
Nobunaga shifted his grip on the reins, tightening his heavy thighs against the horse’s flanks. He drove his heels into the beast, and the horse broke into a hard, bone-jarring trot.
CREAK.
The wooden saddle groaned under the sudden shift. The strap cut into Soma’s chest, squeezing the remaining air from his lungs in a short gasp. His head fell back, his skull resting against the Warlord’s hard shoulder.
"The strap," Soma managed to choke out. "Too tight."
"The strap is exactly as tight as it needs to be to hold you," Nobunaga said, his warm breath hitting Soma’s wet hair. "Breathe through the pressure, ghost. Or stop breathing. You will get to my gates exactly how I want you."
Soma closed his eyes, his heart thumping hard against the Warlord’s back. He locked his jaw, pulling on the same stubborn grit he had used during cold winter pours in the mountains. He locked the pain of his raw skin and the tight squeeze on his lungs away, treating them like simple job-site hazards. He just endured.
SKRRRCH.
A sharp, grating scrape cut through the quiet morning.
The sound registered instantly in Soma's head—the protesting squeal of tough plastic dragging across raw gravel.
He twisted his neck, his bruised cheek dragging against the coarse silk of Nobunaga’s robe.
Ten yards down the muddy path, two armored guards were struggling to pull a crude wooden sled, leaning hard into thick ropes. Lashed flat to the timber frame was the black suitcase. Its wheels pointed uselessly toward the sky, and the flat bottom of the hard-shell plastic was dragging sideways through the dirt, plowing a deep, ugly trench in the road.
"Stop dragging it," Soma called out, throwing his voice over the sound of the hooves. He dropped the captive act, speaking with the sharp authority of a manager halting a bad operation. "You're ruining the outer casing! The box has wheels on the bottom. Drop the sled and roll it. You're wasting your own strength."
Nobunaga didn't look back. He just let out a short, loud laugh that vibrated straight down Soma's spine.
"I don't know your 'wheels', ghost," Nobunaga said. "My men think the black box is a cursed coffin. They think I bound a river demon inside a strange stone. The deep line it cuts in the dirt is satisfying. It marks my path."
"It's just tough plastic," Soma said, a wave of nausea hitting his stomach. "Let my arms loose. I'll show you how the wheels work. We can make the haul easier."
"Power is meant to be spent," Nobunaga said, pressing his chest tighter against Soma’s back. "Fear is a better tool than your plans. Let them stay terrified."
The trees vanished completely, and the flat, wet dirt of the plains stretched out to the horizon.
A massive fort rose from the flat ground.
Soma looked at the structure. This was Kiyosu Castle, but it had none of the clean, white-painted walls or high, soaring towers he had seen in textbooks. This was a flatland mud fort built for raw, brutal war.
The walls were built horizontally, sprawling wide.
Unpeeled timber posts and packed earth rose directly from the mud. A wide, diverted river branch acted as an outer moat, the dark water lapping against the banks. The surrounding town was a tight maze of low, thatched-roof huts and rough wooden fences.
The roads narrowed. Thick black mud sucked at the horse's hooves, and the air smelled of woodsmoke, human waste, and rotting thatch. Nobunaga didn't slow down, and the peasants scrambled into the muck to get out of the warhorse's path.
CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.
Iron hooves struck the heavy wooden drawbridge, sending hollow thuds up through the saddle. The dark gatehouse swallowed them, the air suddenly cold and smelling of wet stone and oil.
The flat courtyards of the castle opened before them.
The yard was packed dirt and stone warehouses. Foot soldiers and servants threw themselves facedown into the mud as the Warlord entered. Hundreds of eyes watched the horse, staring at the pale, shivering stranger strapped to the Warlord's chest, and the black box dragging in the mud behind them.
Nobunaga pulled the reins, bringing the horse to a sharp, sudden halt in the middle of the yard.
He reached down and unbuckled the heavy brass clasp of the hauling strap.
The stiff leather fell away. The sudden loss of the Warlord's body heat hit Soma like ice, his skin shaking violently as the cold air rushed in.
Nobunaga slid down from the saddle.
THUD.
His heavy waraji straw boots hit the packed dirt. He didn't offer Soma a hand.
Soma grabbed the wooden pommel, swung his stiff right leg over, and dropped toward the ground.
His boots hit the dirt, and his knees completely gave out.
His muscles, locked tight by the cold and exhausted by the constant rubbing of the ride, refused to hold. His joints buckled, and his body pitched forward toward the mud.
Soma’s hand shot out, his fingers locking around the heavy leather stirrup strap.
He caught himself inches from the dirt, hanging by one arm as his breath came in ragged gasps. His heart hammered against his ribs.
He refused to collapse in the middle of the yard.
He forced his thighs to engage, locking his knees and straightening his spine one joint at a time. He used pure grit to override his shaking legs, forcing himself to stand upright.
An older retainer stepped forward, his face looking like scarred stone. Toichi. Iron plates clinked against his chainmail as he walked.
Toichi stared at Soma’s wet, modern clothes, his eyes locking onto the tight, wet denim jeans. A look of disgust crossed his face.
CLATTER.
The guards dragged the wooden sled into the yard, dropping the ropes and backing away from the black plastic suitcase.
"My Lord," Toichi said, pointing a finger at the blue jeans. "The ghost smells of river mud. Shall I have the servants burn these strange blue rags? The cloth is indecent. I can see the exact shape of his manhood pressed against the wet fabric."
Soma’s dark eyes flashed. He ignored the old retainer entirely, looking straight at Nobunaga.
"These aren't rags," Soma said, his voice flat and practical. "This is protective gear. It survives weather your weavers can't even dream of. The clothes stay on, and the box stays locked."
Nobunaga rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.
He stared at the pale stranger. The man was freezing in the mud, barely able to stand, and his body was giving out in front of the whole yard. Yet he was still issuing demands, protecting his black box and his blue trousers.
A slow smirk spread across the Warlord’s face. He stepped forward, his body heat washing over Soma again.
"You have no say here, ghost," Nobunaga said. "But your arrogance is amusing. It's rare to find a man who cares more about blue cloth than his own neck."
"They're useful tools," Soma said, keeping his arms locked at his sides and refusing to fold them against the cold.
"Keep your tools for now," Nobunaga said, waving his calloused hand. "But if I see you shivering in front of me again, I'll strip the cloth off you myself. I'll wrap you in heavy silk until you forget the feel of those trousers."
Nobunaga turned to his retainer.
"Toichi. Take him to the bathhouse. Scrub the mud off his skin. Wash his muddy clothes. Take the black box to my private room. If there's a single fresh scratch on it, I'll take your head."
SHKKK.
Nobunaga turned on his heel, his dark robes flaring as he walked toward the main keep.
Soma stood alone in the courtyard, the stiff, wet denim clamping tight as he watched the Warlord go.