Location: A Private Dining Chamber, Kiyosu Castle.
Current Date/Time: Night. Late Summer, 1559.
The heavy cedar doors of the Inner Sanctum slammed shut, sealing away Nobunaga and the open luggage. For hours, Soma sat shivering under heavy guard in a drafty, unlit antechamber. He listened to the wind whistle through the paper screens as the bruised violet light of late afternoon bled into a pitch-black, suffocating Owari night.
The sliding door suddenly snapped open. A torch flared, throwing harsh, dancing shadows against the walls.
"On your feet, Ghost," the lead guard barked. Rough, calloused hands clamped onto Soma's bare shoulder, dragging him violently upright. "The Lord of Owari eats. You will not keep him waiting."
"I can barely feel my legs," Soma rasped, his teeth chattering uncontrollably as the frigid draft hit his damp skin.
"Then you will drag them," the guard spat, shoving him hard from behind. "Move."
Two guards marched in front, two behind. Their bare heels slapped a hard, bruising rhythm against the cold, unpolished cedar floorboards. Soma tracked their path. Unlike the soaring, layered towers he knew from history books, Kiyosu sprawled low and flat across the plains. It was a dizzying maze of dark timber halls, hemmed in by deep, stagnant moats and towering earthen walls. The corridors jagged at sharp right angles, designed to disorient, bottleneck, and slaughter anyone who didn't know the way.
Massive, stripped tree trunks sat directly on river stones, bearing the crushing weight of the roof. Deep, hand-chiseled grooves locked the beams together, the wood groaning and settling under its own massive gravity without a single iron nail to hold it. Drafts of frigid air sliced through the gaps in the sliding paper walls, carrying the metallic tang of standing moat water and the sweet, damp rot of the sprawling plains.
He forced his stiff, bruised legs forward. The bathhouse attendants had stripped away his modern clothes, scouring his skin raw with crushed ash-paste and scalding water. Now, he shivered in a rust-brown hemp kosode. The rough, unlined weave hung loosely off his shoulders. The short sleeves left his pale wrists exposed to the biting draft, and the hem stopped awkwardly high above his shins. With every step, the stiff hemp fibers raked mercilessly across his scoured shoulder blades.
"This sash," Soma gasped out, twisting his torso and hunching slightly to keep the rough fabric away from his bleeding skin. "It's binding my waist. It’s too tight, I can't breathe."
The guard behind him drove the blunt wooden haft of a spear sharply into Soma's spine.
"It holds the peasant rag over your pale skin," the man sneered. "Breathe shallower."
The relentless tension locked his stride. He tried to take a full, natural step and choked back a sharp cry as the dry cotton sawed violently into the tender skin of his thighs.
He stumbled, throwing a hand against the timber wall for balance. "Wait. Let me adjust—"
"You do not stop!" the lead guard snapped. He grabbed Soma by the collar and yanked him forward, causing the binding to bite even deeper. "You bleed if you must, but you walk until the Lord tells you to sit."
Soma swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He had to twist his waist, rolling his weight with agonizing care from the ball of his foot to his heel just to minimize the tearing friction. His knees throbbed. The freezing bite of the Kiso River still chewed at his joints, a deep, persistent ache that made his bones feel like splintered glass.
The lead guard stopped, dropping to his knees. He pressed flat palms to the floorboards and shoved the sliding screen. The wood rasped like a drawn blade over the track.
"The river captive, My Lord," the guard announced, bowing his forehead to the mat.
A physical wave of heat hit Soma’s face. Thick smoke choked the upper half of the room. The sweet, heavy resin of burning agarwood battled with the greasy, thick odor of roasting wild boar fat and the sharp, eye-watering sting of pickling vinegar.
Soma stepped over the threshold.
Oda Nobunaga sat at the head of a low, scarred cedar table. The warlord rested cross-legged on a thick silk cushion, still wearing the dark gray robe from the sanctum. Golden tigers coiled through the silk, the metallic threads flashing violently in the light of a single brass oil lamp. The robe hung open to his navel, baring a broad, muscular chest mapped with thick, pale scars. He rested a heavy forearm casually on a raised knee. His gold-flecked eyes locked onto Soma, tracking the agonizing, stilted shuffle as the prisoner crossed the room.
"Sit," Nobunaga rumbled.
The deep timber of his voice vibrated through the floorboards. He tapped his folded black iron war fan against his thigh, then pointed the blunt iron tip at a woven straw cushion positioned directly across the low table.
"The river takes a heavy toll on a man's fire. And a starving prisoner bleeds useless answers."
Soma shuffled toward the cushion. He lowered himself, fighting the stiffness in his knees to keep his balance.
A servant girl shuffled out from the shadows, her chin tucked subserviently against her chest. She slid a lacquered tray in front of Soma. A bowl of steaming millet. Pale, sharp-smelling pickled radishes. A whole, grilled river trout. Blackened, blistered skin flaked away from the fish, heavily crusted with coarse, gray sea salt.
Soma picked up the wooden chopsticks. His knuckles strained stark white against his pale skin. His fingers trembled violently, lacking the fine motor control to grip the smooth wood. He pressed the tips together, fighting a desperate, losing battle for leverage.
"It is river fish," Nobunaga noted, watching the struggle. He tore a thick, dripping strip of wild boar meat from his own plate. He held his chopsticks loosely, angled downward like a dagger. "Caught in the exact same water that tried to drown you. We eat what tries to kill us, Ghost. It ensures the predator remains at the top of the chain. I intend to swallow your secrets the exact same way."
Soma pinned a charred flake of trout against the plate, scooped it up, and forced it into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed. The heavy, burning salt hit his hollow stomach like a stone.
"It’s heavily salted," Soma rasped, clearing his throat. "But the meat is exactly what I need to stop this shaking. Thank you, Lord Nobunaga."
Nobunaga lifted a shallow red lacquer cup. He drank the sake slowly, letting the cup thud heavily onto the bare wood of the table.
"You speak of your own flesh as if it were a rusted blade needing oil," Nobunaga murmured. "Your tongue is completely flat, Ghost. You lack the fire of a man who understands that every single bite is a conquest. Tell me, does the food in your land have no blood left in it? Is everything as sterile and soft as your skin?"
"Our food is prepared so it doesn't kill us," Soma said, keeping his gaze level. "We don't eat the things that were actively hunting us five minutes prior. We secure the walls before we sit down to the meal."
"Secure the walls." Nobunaga leaned his massive shoulders forward across the low cedar table. His sheer bulk eclipsed the amber light of the oil lamp, casting Soma in deep shadow. The coarse hemp of Soma’s kosode prickled like thorns against his shoulders. "You use these empty, hollow words to hide the fact that you are terrified. I see your hands shaking. I see you staring at those wooden sticks as if they were an unbroken code. You claim you can build towering fortresses, yet you struggle with the weight of a tiny, dead fish."
"A man's worth isn't measured by his grip on a pair of sticks," Soma said, his fingers tightening around the wood. "I am simply learning how the slick lacquer slides against the charred skin. It’s a different balance than I’m used to, but the rules of weight and leverage haven't changed. I just need to find my grip."
Nobunaga smiled. A flash of white teeth in the dim light. "Find it quickly, then. I do not keep useless ornaments in Kiyosu. I keep weapons. And a weapon that cannot even feed itself is one I will break and throw into the fire."
Soma shifted his weight on the silk cushion. The rust-brown hemp dragged like sandpaper across his raw shoulder blades. The warlord’s predatory gaze dropped to Soma’s pale hands trembling over the dark wood of the dining tray.
"You have the hands of a pampered courtesan," Nobunaga scoffed, his eyes narrowing. "They are soft. They are bloodless. I see no thick callouses from gripping the hilt of a sword. I see no deep scars from the violent snap of a bowstring. How does a man with such fragile, delicate skin claim to forge the unbreakable gates of a god?"
"I am a builder," Soma said, leaning into the table. "I don't need sword-callouses to raise a wall. Where I come from, progress is forged in the mind, not in the dirt. I spent years mapping how heavy stone cracks, how to force a foundation to swallow the violent shaking of the earth without shattering. My strength is in what I know."
"You speak as if you hold the strings of the earth itself," Nobunaga challenged. "You think your paper drawings elevate you above a mortal man?"
"I am a man who sees the invisible lines you ignore," Soma fired back. "I build keeps that drink fire and spit it out. I design massive iron gates that swallow the crushing blow of a battering ram and leave the timber completely untouched. We win the siege long before the enemy even marches."
"Nothing lasts!" Nobunaga barked, his voice cracking like a whip. "Even the thickest cedar surrenders to the wet rot of the earth. Only names remain. Only the blood we bleed into the mud leaves a mark. You wrap yourself in these invisible lines like armor but look at you, sitting there shivering beneath a peasant's rag."
Nobunaga lunged across the small table. His massive hand shot out, his fingers clamping brutally around Soma’s jaw.
Soma instantly grabbed Nobunaga’s thick wrist with his left hand. He dug his nails into the tendon, desperately trying to pry the crushing grip away.
"Let go," Soma hissed through his teeth.
Nobunaga’s fingers were slick with the rendered grease of the roasted boar. He didn't budge. His rough, calloused thumb dug agonizingly deep into the soft tissue beneath Soma’s jawbone, forcing his head violently upward. Soma's spine snapped backward, paralyzed by the sheer physical leverage.
"You chirp about invisible lines while your heart hammers against your ribs like a trapped sparrow," Nobunaga whispered. The hot, raw stench of horse musk, sharp sake, and roasted meat washed over Soma's face. "You claim to be a master of stones. But here, in the mud of Owari, there is only one law that matters. Mine."
Soma gasped, fighting the pressure. He glared up into those golden, predatory eyes. "It doesn’t change the truth. I can build exactly what I promised. If you stop trying to break me and let me work."
Nobunaga’s thumb ground fiercely against the bone of Soma’s jaw. He traced the frantic, heavy pulse beating in the hollow of Soma's throat. A slow, jagged smirk curled the warlord’s lips.
"I do not bargain with my weapons, Ghost," Nobunaga purred, his hot breath brushing Soma’s skin. "I own them. And if a blade is as proud as you, I find I must first see how much heat it can take before it snaps, before I ever let it strike my enemies."
He released Soma with a sharp, dismissive flick of his wrist.
Soma slumped back onto his cushion, dragging ragged, cold air into his burning lungs.
Nobunaga rose smoothly to his feet. The golden tigers on his silk robe rippled in the flickering lamplight. He stalked slowly toward the far corner of the room, where the black Samsonite trunk sat marooned on the woven grass mats.
Nobunaga drove a flat-footed kick directly into the hard plastic shell.
The hollow, booming thud echoed violently off the thin paper screens.
"You wield your invisible plans like a shield," Nobunaga rumbled. He crouched beside the luggage, tracing the long, black nylon track of the zipper with a scarred finger. "I have seen the glass pebbles and the black mirror you hide in this belly. They are fragile, delicate things, Ghost. I have a master smith in the lower bailey who can crush your black mirror into useless dust before this lamp burns out. I think I will call for his hammer now. Let us see if your precious knowledge can survive a slab of heavy Owari iron."
Soma scrambled up from his cushion. His legs shook violently. He locked his knees to stay standing.
"Don't touch it," Soma warned, his voice tight. "That black mirror has a heart of trapped, poisonous fire. If your smith shatters it with iron, or throws it into his forge, the fire will rupture. It will explode."
Nobunaga turned his head slowly. His gold-flecked eyes pinned Soma to the floorboards.
"It burns hot enough to melt solid stone, and no river water can put it out," Soma pushed on, desperate to explain the danger in terms the warlord would understand. "You will burn this entire timber fortress to ash, and you will murder the only tools that can forge your impenetrable walls."
"You lie," Nobunaga said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
He stood up, his massive shadow swallowing the plastic box entirely.
"You lie because you are terrified. You know that without these fragile toys, you are nothing but a shivering peasant."
"The fire in that box does not yield to a hammer!" Soma countered, stepping forward. "You demanded a man who can build the impossible. Let me wake the mirror when the fires are dead and the room is safe. Shatter it now, and you hold nothing but toxic ash. Stay your hand, and you hold the future of Owari."
Nobunaga walked slowly back toward the table. His bare feet made absolutely no sound on the tatami mats. He stopped inches from Soma. His towering frame completely eclipsed the engineer. The heavy, suffocating furnace of his body heat pressed down on Soma like a collapsing roof.
"You are a fascinating puzzle, Ghost," Nobunaga murmured.
He reached out. He dragged a single, searingly hot finger along the rough collar of Soma’s ill-fitting hemp robe. The calloused, leather-rough skin of his fingertip grazed the sensitive, bare flesh at the nape of Soma’s neck.
A violent shiver shot straight down Soma’s spine. Soma locked his jaw, his fingernails biting bloody half-moons into his palms.
"You are more fragile than the glass in your box, yet you bare your teeth at me with far more iron," Nobunaga said softly.
He stepped back. The sudden, jarring absence of his intense body heat left Soma entirely exposed to the icy, damp drafts bleeding through the paper walls.
Nobunaga snapped his iron war fan shut against his palm.
"Finish your fish, Ghost. The ice of the river is still rotting in your bones, and you will need the meat. Tomorrow, we will see if your invisible lines can hold the weight of my stones."
Soma stared down at the cold, heavily salted river trout resting on the dark wood. Nobunaga lifted the ceramic flask and poured himself another cup of sake.