Location: The Inner Sanctum, Kiyosu Castle.
Current Date/Time: Late Afternoon. Late Summer, 1559.
The late afternoon sun slipped beneath the western palisades of Kiyosu Castle, bleeding a bruised, deep violet through the tight grid of the shoji screens. Outside, the flatland fortress’s heavy timber eaves threw long, spear-like shadows across the packed-dirt courtyard.
Inside the Inner Sanctum, the stifling air hung dead and heavy, clinging to the skin. The space carried the sharp, grassy scent of fresh tatami mats woven tight over pressed rice-straw, warring with the rich, sweet smoke of burning agarwood and the faint, damp rot of old cedar beams.
Perfectly centered in this hand-hewn, timber world sat the black Samsonite trunk.
It was an alien monolith to sixteenth-century eyes. Drops of river water from the Kiso still beaded along its dark, hard shell, refusing to sink into the unnatural material. It bled a harsh, bitter scent of strange oils and forged resins that violently pierced the room's earthy incense. Its utterly smooth, unblemished curves and impossibly even corners defied the chisel and the saw, standing as something born of witchcraft rather than carved by mortal hands.
A few feet away, Oda Nobunaga sat cross-legged on a large purple silk cushion, his heavy frame seemingly rooted to the floorboards. Stripped of his rough hunting armor, he wore only a dark gray silk kosode. The wide lapels fell open to reveal a broad chest mapped with thick, pale scars. He breathed in slow, measured pulls, radiating a suffocating wall of body heat that seemed to devour the very air around him.
His right hand gripped a heavy tessen, a war fan forged from solid black iron.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
He beat the iron against his calloused left palm in a dry, rhythmic pulse. His gold-flecked eyes never wavered from the strange black box, studying its smooth walls like a sealed, defiant fortress.
He shifted his weight, sliding from the silk directly onto the tatami. His bare knees scuffed the woven grass. Reaching out with fingers like cured leather, he pressed his thumb against one of the small wheels at the base. He flicked the rubber edge.
Whirrrr.
The wheel spun in a high, flawless blur. No grinding of rough wood, no shriek of rusted iron. Nobunaga’s pupils dilated, recognizing the absolute perfection of the spin. He traced his thumb up from the housing to the trunk's center seam. Searching for heavy iron hinges or sticky lacquer seals, he found only a recessed track of black, interwoven thread.
He dug a hardened fingernail into the track and dragged it down.
Zzzzt.
The fast, biting snarl of the nylon teeth was startlingly loud in the hushed room. Nobunaga leaned closer, his intense heat washing over the cold plastic. He stared at the hundreds of tiny, perfectly locked teeth. Pressing his heavy thumb against a single ridge, he bore down, trying to pry it open with raw strength. It did not give. It did not tear. The unbroken line held fast.
He followed the zipper's path up to the top corner, where the two metal pulls met at a small block of hardened resin and steel. Three numbered dials sat in the block, displaying tiny, strange markings.
Nobunaga caught his thumbnail on the ridges of the first dial.
Click.
The tiny catch was sharp and absolute. He turned the second dial.
Click.
Three dials. A locked gate. Nobunaga dropped his hand to his sash and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his tantō. The cold steel hissed against the wooden scabbard as he drew the dagger an inch free. He rested the razor edge against the plastic shell and pushed. The steel bit in, leaving a thin white scar.
He stopped. He shoved the blade back into its sheath with a sharp crack.
Snap.
To shatter the shell was to lose the secret that forged it. He wanted the willing surrender of the man who held the numbers.
"Toichi!" Nobunaga’s voice boomed through the sanctum.
The scarred retainer materialized from the corridor's deep shadows, dropping instantly to one knee. "My Lord."
"Bring the Ghost to me," Nobunaga commanded. "Drag him from the guest quarters. I want the key to this beast."
Toichi moved through the twisting hallways of the main keep with a hound's silent grace. He found Soma standing in the small antechamber by the bathhouse.
Soma stood rigid on the cedar floorboards. He wore a rust-brown hemp kosode, the rough, scratchy wrap of a field laborer. Hooking two fingers under the collar, he pulled the stiff cloth away from his neck. The rough hemp scoured mercilessly against his raw, pink skin.
"Toichi," Soma rasped, his throat dry from the bathhouse steam. "This cloth is chewing me raw. I need to loosen the knot before I can even walk."
Toichi crossed the room in two massive strides. His hand shot out, clamping onto Soma’s left shoulder. He squeezed, driving thick fingers deep into the muscle, bruising the flesh right through the heavy hemp.
Soma clamped his jaw shut. He dropped his hands and curled his fingers into fists so tight his knuckles went white.
"Silence," Toichi hissed, leaning in until his scarred, weathered face filled Soma's vision. "My Lord called for you. His patience hangs by a hair."
Toichi jerked Soma forward.
The sudden violence yanked the rough, unbleached cotton of the fundoshi upward. The dry loincloth twisted, the rough fibers sawing fiercely against the tender, exposed skin of Soma's groin. He gasped, the jarring friction shooting a line of fire straight up his spine.
"When you cross his threshold, you do not whine about your cloth," Toichi spat, slapping the dust from Soma’s shoulders with two stinging blows. "You drop until your forehead kisses the wood. You wait to be told to rise. You call him Lord Nobunaga, Oda-Sama, Lord of Owari or simply, My Lord. You do not dare look him in the eye unless his iron fan strikes the floor. Do you hear me?"
Soma stared at the veteran warrior. The suffocating, abrasive bite of the primitive loincloth grounded him in the brutal present. He wasn’t a man of science anymore; he was a prisoner.
"I hear you," Soma choked out. "Lord Nobunaga."
"Move." Toichi spun and marched toward the dark hall.
Soma followed, stepping onto the uguisubari—the nightingale floors. Beneath the cedar planks, hidden iron clamps ground against iron nails under their shifting weight.
Chirp. Chirp.
The high, warning squeaks echoed down the corridor. Soma knew exactly how the boards were built but hearing them cry out beneath his own feet felt like the ticking of an executioner's clock.
Every step was a fresh agony. The heavy cloth scratch at his shoulders, but the true torment was knotted at his waist. Tied with a tight force, the dry cotton of the fundoshi bit relentlessly into his sensitive skin with every shift of his hips. He forced himself to walk with stiff, unnatural care, locking his legs to stop the cloth from swinging. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
They reached the sanctum. Toichi dropped to his knees and shoved the heavy cedar doors open.
Shrrr-clack.
A solid wave of radiating body heat slammed into Soma’s face. The air was thick with burning agarwood and Nobunaga’s predatory musk.
Nobunaga sat dead center. The black Samsonite trunk rested squarely between the warlord and the door.
"Kneel, Ghost," Nobunaga rumbled, the sound vibrating the floorboards.
Soma fell to his knees. The downward drop yanked the tight cotton bindings viciously upward. The coarse fabric ground deep into his hips and dragged sharply across his most sensitive flesh. The sudden, harsh friction sparked an unwanted, fiery jolt straight to his groin. He fought a desperate, panicked battle to force the rising heat down. Blood surged to his face, burning a deep, humiliated red into his pale cheeks.
Nobunaga’s gold-flecked eyes caught the flush instantly. He watched the rough hemp strain over Soma’s shaking shoulders, and the frantic flutter of the pulse in the hollow of his throat.
"You burn brightly, Ghost," Nobunaga purred, his pupils widening. "Is my house too rough for your soft skin? Or is your blood just eager to spill?"
"The cloth is... difficult to wear, Lord Nobunaga," Soma managed, forcing his voice flat. "It’s pulled far too tight."
Nobunaga barked a short, sharp laugh. He tapped his iron war fan against the trunk's hard shell.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
"You shake with a heat that matches the secrets in this box," Nobunaga said, striking the fan one last time. "Open the gate. I am done waiting on closed doors."
Soma dragged himself forward, the woven grass scraping his bare knees. He reached the trunk, leaning in until the oppressive heat rolling off Nobunaga's chest washed over his face. He rested his trembling hands on the lock.
He spun the dials. 1. 0. 8. 9.
Click. Click. Click.
He pressed the release. The internal spring snapped. The metal pulls popped free. Soma grabbed them and dragged them down the track.
Zzzzzip.
The ripping scream of the tearing teeth echoed sharply. Nobunaga watched the mechanism surrender its grip with hungry eyes.
Soma threw the lid back.
The stale, ancient air of the room was shoved aside. A sterile, biting scent of strange plastics, sharp chemical soaps, and the cold tang of sleeping metal flooded the space between them.
Nobunaga didn't hesitate. He plunged a massive, calloused hand into the luggage compartment. Shoving aside a folded shirts and shoes, he pulled out a sleek titanium multi-tool.
He turned the strange metal over in the flickering amber lamplight. Digging his thumbnail into the blade's groove, he snapped it open. The lock clicked home. Nobunaga ran his thumb across the flat edge, weighing the unnatural lightness of the titanium against the heavy tamahagane precious steel he knew. He snapped it shut and tossed it back.
He reached in again, pulling out the compact laser rangefinder. He held it to the light, tapping the matte casing.
Tap. Tap.
"The Namban (foreigners) bring heavy glass to watch the stars," Nobunaga muttered. "They bring brass gears to count the sun. But their tools are heavy wood and brass. This..." He weighed the small device. "This has no soul. It feels like the dried husk of a dead beetle."
"It measures things, My Lord," Soma said. "It throws an unseen light to count the distance. We use it to see a wall before we lay a single stone. It leaves no room for a man's mistakes."
Nobunaga chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest. "No mistakes. You chirp like a bird, Ghost. These are strange, smooth stones washed up from a shore I do not know."
He dropped the tool. He reached deep into the padded sleeve and grabbed the silver edge of the laptop.
He hauled the heavy machine out, its machined aluminum gleaming. He set it on his lap, gripping the screen and base. He tested the smooth, heavy pull of the hinge, cracking it open, then snapping it shut. He ran rough fingers over the glass pad and the flat, dead keys.
"Is this a mirror for ghosts?" Nobunaga demanded, holding the closed machine up in both hands. "The glass is black as pitch. I see nothing but the dark shadow of my own face."
"It’s no mirror," Soma said, pushing himself up slightly. "It is a library. It holds the knowledge I promised to build you. The metal itself is nothing; the secrets locked inside it will win your wars."
"Drawings. Secrets." Nobunaga chewed on the words, pressing his thumb hard into the aluminum. "A true library is heavy paper and dark ink. A true map is painted on silk. This is just a cold, dead leaf of iron."
Nobunaga moved with a sudden, blurring violence.
His large, leather-rough hand shot out and clamped onto the back of Soma’s neck. The grip was monstrous. Nobunaga’s thick fingers dug brutally into the muscle and bone, crushing the base of Soma's skull.
Using his massive leverage, Nobunaga yanked Soma forward. Soma’s spine bowed out of alignment. He threw his hands flat onto the tatami to save his face from smashing into the open trunk. The violent, downward jerk yanked the fundoshi upward once more, driving the stiff, unyielding cotton agonizingly deep into his groin.
Soma's heart hammered frantically against his ribs. The warlord’s suffocating heat swallowed him whole. Nobunaga held him pinned halfway over the luggage, his face hovering mere inches from Soma’s. The raw, choking smell of horse sweat and unwashed man entirely drowned out the sterile scent of the metal.
"The box is finally open," Nobunaga growled, his voice a low, vibrating threat. "But the Ghost is still locked tight. Do you truly believe these little toys make you a master? Do you think these fragile things can stop my blade?"
Soma locked his elbows, keeping his chest suspended above the open trunk. The heat pooling in his lap was a heavy, humiliating ache, born of the intense friction and the sheer, paralyzing terror of Nobunaga's absolute physical dominance. He forced his head up, fighting the crushing grip on his neck, and stared straight into Nobunaga's golden eyes.
"The tools are useless without the mind that wields them," Soma spat, forcing his voice into a hard, stubborn line. "I am the one who breathes life into them."
Nobunaga’s mouth twisted into a jagged smirk. He squeezed the back of Soma's neck, digging his thumb directly into the nerve.
"Exactly," Nobunaga breathed.
The warlord leaned closer. His hot breath brushed directly across Soma’s lips.
"And I own the person who breathes life into them."