Chapter 5

The horses carried them down the stone road toward Sagami.

Akihiro sat on the saddle with his hands loosely bound in front of him, not quite like a prisoner, but not like an honored guest either. Daigo rode beside him, watched carefully by two soldiers.

“You’re sure this isn’t an arrest?” Akihiro whispered without turning his head.

“If they wanted to arrest you, they wouldn’t be this polite,” Daigo replied flatly. “And they wouldn’t allow me to come along.”

Akihiro swallowed.

In the distance, the wooden castle of the Miura Clan stood firmly, surrounded by high walls and watchtowers. The Miura banners fluttered above the gate.

He had once seen it only from afar as a simple farmer.

Now he passed through its gate as someone being sought.

The inner courtyard was filled with samurai training. The sharp crack of wooden swords striking each other echoed loudly. The smell of sweat and iron mixed with the scent of pinewood.

Akihiro and Daigo were brought to the main hall.

Inside stood a man around forty years old, wearing light but well-kept armor. His gaze was sharp, his jaw firm. He did not sit upon a throne but stood with his hands behind his back.

“So this is him,” he said quietly.

One of the soldiers bowed. “Yes, sir. The young man.”

The man stepped closer.

“I am Miura Nakagawa,” he said. “An officer of the Miura Clan.”

Akihiro bowed respectfully. “Akihiro.”

“No title?”

“I’m only a farmer.”

Nakagawa studied his face for a long moment.

“A farmer who killed twenty bandits alone?”

Akihiro did not answer.

One soldier stepped forward.

“A report came from a wealthy merchant outside Kiyama village. Twenty bandits were found dead. Not a single one survived.”

Nakagawa nodded slowly.

“And you… were the only person there.”

Daigo finally spoke.

“The boy only defended the innocent.”

Nakagawa turned his head toward him.

“And you?”

“A ronin.”

“Your name?”

“Daigo Moritsune.”

For a brief moment, recognition flashed in Nakagawa’s eyes.

“I’ve heard that name before.”

Daigo did not react.

Nakagawa turned back to Akihiro.

“I’ve also heard about your village.”

Akihiro’s heart tightened.

“A village in the southern territory burned several weeks ago. No survivors… except one.”

The room suddenly felt colder.

“We believe it was the work of the Fujiwara Clan,” Nakagawa continued. “And you are the living witness.”

Akihiro clenched his fists.

“I didn’t see the Miura crest on their clothes,” he said quietly. “I saw the Fujiwara crest.”

Nakagawa nodded.

“That is enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“For war.”

Silence hung in the air.

Nakagawa slowly walked around Akihiro, studying his posture and the scar on his abdomen.

“You were not born a samurai.”

“No.”

“You have no noble blood.”

“No.”

“You don’t even have a family anymore.”

The words felt like a small blade twisting slowly.

Akihiro remained standing straight.

Nakagawa stopped in front of him.

“That is precisely why you are dangerous.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A man who has nothing left to lose is usually the hardest to stop.”

Nakagawa gestured to one of the soldiers.

A wooden sword was tossed toward Akihiro.

“Show me.”

Akihiro caught it.

Three young samurai stepped forward at once.

Daigo simply stood still.

The first attack came quickly.

Akihiro blocked it.

The second strike was more precise—he stepped back half a pace and twisted his body.

The third attack nearly hit him, but he lowered himself and swept the opponent’s legs.

Within a few breaths, two had fallen and the third stepped back with a shocked expression.

Nakagawa smiled faintly.

“Your technique is not village technique.”

Akihiro glanced briefly toward Daigo.

“He trained me.”

Nakagawa looked at Daigo more seriously now.

“Old ronin… you hid a diamond in the forest.”

Daigo replied shortly,

“Even diamonds can crack.”

Nakagawa turned and walked toward the low table in the center of the hall.

“I will not waste time with unnecessary words,” he said. “The Miura Clan needs men like him.”

Akihiro remained silent.

“We are preparing a counterattack,” Nakagawa continued. “One of Fujiwara’s smaller fortresses on the eastern border.”

The name Fujiwara made Akihiro’s blood stir.

“Naritsune has grown too confident,” Nakagawa added, speaking the name Fujiwara Naritsune coldly. “He thinks the Miura will remain silent forever.”

Akihiro finally spoke.

“Why me?”

“Because you already chose not to run.”

“I’m not a samurai.”

“Samurai is not about blood,” Nakagawa replied. “Samurai is about decision.”

“I’m not ready,” Akihiro murmured. “I don’t even understand this world.”

Nakagawa stared at him sharply.

“This world already came to your village and burned it down. And you still say you’re not ready?”

Akihiro fell silent.

Daigo stepped forward slightly.

“The boy hesitates because he still thinks,” he said. “That’s good.”

Nakagawa nodded slightly.

“And what do you think, ronin?”

Daigo looked at Akihiro.

“You want to know why your village was burned?” he asked quietly.

Akihiro looked at him.

“This is your path toward that answer,” Daigo continued. “You cannot hide in the forest forever. Your sword is not meant only for hunting deer.”

Akihiro remembered his mother’s words.

The world is bigger than this field.

Nakagawa spoke again.

“If you join us, you will be trained as part of the Miura forces. You will take part in the assault on a Fujiwara fortress.”

“And if I refuse?”

Nakagawa did not smile.

“We won’t force you.”

A brief silence followed.

“But opportunities like this do not come twice.”

Akihiro took a deep breath.

Attack a Fujiwara fortress.

Perhaps there he would find someone who knew who ordered the massacre of his village.

Perhaps there he would find answers.

Or death.

He looked at Daigo.

The old man nodded slowly.

“I will not live forever to protect you,” he said. “Perhaps this truly is your fate.”

Akihiro turned back to Nakagawa.

“I’ll join,” he finally said.

Nakagawa smiled faintly, satisfied.

“Good.”

He stepped closer until only a single step separated them.

His gaze was sharp, piercing like a blade.

“Are you ready to die for the rebirth of your village?”

Akihiro stood among dozens of other soldiers, wearing simple training clothes.

His hands no longer held a hoe or firewood, but a training katana heavier than the wooden sword he once used with Daigo.

They had been training since before dawn.

Formation drills. Coordinated thrusts. Mounted charges. Defense against volleys of arrows.

An instructor walked along the rows.

“Lower your center of gravity! Your legs are not for standing—they are for moving!”

Akihiro controlled his breathing. His movements were quick, his instincts sharp.

Several samurai began to notice him.

During a short break, two young soldiers whispered.

“That’s the one who killed twenty bandits.”

“That farmer?”

“They say he did it alone.”

Akihiro pretended not to hear.

During the rest period, a short-haired samurai approached him.

“You’re from the southern village?”

Akihiro nodded.

“I’m Shunpei,” he said, extending a hand. “Cavalry division, eastern unit.”

Akihiro shook it.

“Akihiro.”

“No family name?”

Akihiro paused for a fraction of a second.

He remembered his village.

The land.

The ashes.

“I am Akihiro Kurogane,” he finally said.

Shunpei raised his eyebrows.

“Kurogane? ‘Black Iron’? That’s a strong name.”

Akihiro looked down at his sword.

“That name… I will forge it myself.”

Shunpei chuckled.

“Good. We’ll need it.”

On the other side of the field, several soldiers spoke more seriously.

“I heard we’re attacking the eastern territory.”

“A small fortress first, then the city.”

“Fujiwara won’t stay silent.”

That name echoed in Akihiro’s ears.

The Fujiwara Clan.

He gripped his sword tighter.

Meanwhile, inside Sagami Castle, Daigo sat in a wooden room filled with scrolls.

His work was simple—recording military reports, organizing logistics archives, and arranging documents for the military administration.

Work suitable for his age, the officers said.

But Daigo’s eyes read more than ink.

He counted horses.

Arrow supplies.

Supply routes leading east.

A large war was being prepared.

And Akihiro stood in the center of it.

By late afternoon, the entire army gathered in the main courtyard.

From the balcony of a tall wooden tower stood a man wearing a dark war cloak.

Miura Yoshimura.

His gaze swept across the hundreds of soldiers standing in perfect rows.

The wind snapped the Miura banners behind him.

Below, Miura Nakagawa stepped forward and bowed.

“The core troops are ready, my lord. We await your order for the target of our attack.”

Yoshimura did not answer immediately.

He looked toward the east, as if he could see the enemy lands in the distance.

“We will not attack just any fortress,” he said calmly, yet his voice carried all the way to the back of the ranks.

Nakagawa bowed again.

“Your command, my lord.”

Yoshimura raised his hand and pointed to a large map spread across the wooden table beside him.

“Tohoku Fortress.”

Several soldiers exchanged glances.

Yoshimura continued.

“A fortress-city within Fujiwara territory. Tohoku is their northern hub of trade and logistics.”

He looked sharply at Nakagawa.

“If we strike there, Naritsune will feel the loss.”

The name Fujiwara Naritsune was spoken without emotion.

“Prepare the elite samurai,” Yoshimura continued. “And five hundred mounted soldiers.”

A low murmur spread through the ranks.

Five hundred.

This was not a small raid.

This was a declaration of open war.

Nakagawa bowed deeply.

“The order will be carried out immediately.”

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