Pathway to Japanese Literature

――Nobunaga's Favorite Ditty―― When Tachibana Sakyonosuke came to visit Nobunaga carrying two imperial decrees and a court lady’s official document, Nobunaga was out hawking. The envoys from the Imperial Court consisted of just two men: Isobe Shingorō Hisatsugu as their guide and Tachibana as the envoy, their official pretext being a visit to Atsuta Shrine. When Tachibana Sakyonosuke proposed to Marutokōji Tadafusa—the court chamberlain—that they issue an imperial decree and court lady’s document to Nobunaga, he exclaimed, “You’re suggesting something outrageous! This is most troubling, most troubling.”

Though he couldn't tell whether that half-mad warlord Nobunaga truly had strong arms or any promise as a commander—what chilled him was the glowering presence of the Miyoshi faction currently holding power over the realm, and above them that ruthless old viper Matsunaga Danjō—a creature neither snake nor demon. Truly Matsunaga Hisahide was an old man beyond comparison even with serpents or specters—yet surely even he sometimes wanted his fill of rice? Or craved warm bedding come winter? People above the clouds—how apt that phrase proved. Enshrined in those clouded heights they endured—huddling under threadbare futons against icy winds sipping meager mouthfuls of rice—clinging tenuously to each day's breath. Not just the Dainagon either. The Retired Emperor too—the Emperor himself—all shared this wretched state.

This is a story from later days: Nobunaga, having seized control of the realm, repaired the Imperial Palace, offered up funds, and through various acts of devoted service, rescued the Imperial Court from its decline—or so it’s said. At this time, Nobunaga implemented a method where he lent rice to the townspeople of Kyoto and allocated the interest rice to the Imperial Court's finances. The yield from this interest rice amounted to roughly thirteen koku per month. The Imperial Court would eke out a meager existence on half of the thirteen koku. The other half was converted into side dishes and seasonings. Nobunaga rescued them from decline—or so it’s said. Having been rescued, they could finally manage only this much—the people above the clouds led lives of utter misery.

The Emperor sent most of his imperial princes and princesses to temples. The imperial princesses became nuns. The Regent and the Major Counselor did the same. The Ashikaga Shogun did the same. Children were made into priests and nuns. By designating them as monzeki temples or imperial prince temples, they traded on the temple’s rank to receive monthly and annual stipends from the temple—such was the system. They had no other means of livelihood.

Marutokōji Tadafusa too found those viper eyes of Matsunaga Danjō—the old serpent—terrifying. Yet he wanted to eat his fill of rice. Thus he was troubled. "Things have taken a dire turn," he said. "Most troubling...most troubling."

Yet even as he agonized, he took up his brush and wrote two imperial decrees. Jōrō Fūshi wrote the court lady’s official document. As he handed this to Tachibana Sakyonosuke, Major Counselor Tadafusa was still muttering, "Ah, things have taken a dire turn—most troubling, most troubling." And so, that night, he could not sleep a wink. Even Tachibana Sakyonosuke and their guide Isobe grew so distressed that they, too, ended up unable to sleep a wink all night.

The following dawn, the Emperor summoned Tadafusa and declared: "The efforts of senior court ladies and yourselves please Us greatly. Henceforth, apply utmost care—prudence upon prudence—and act with unwavering secrecy." After deliberating over suitable gifts for Nobunaga—"Nothing too elaborate—perhaps a priestly robe? Yes, that will suffice"—the envoys departed in stealth. Since they couldn’t visit Nobunaga directly at Kiyosu Castle, they went to call on Michikata Owari-no-kami—a trusted acquaintance of Isobe’s who served as Nobunaga’s informant. At that time, Nobunaga was out hawking.

After returning from hawking, it was Nobunaga’s custom to rest at Michikata’s residence, take a bath, and then return to his castle. "Since Lord Nobunaga will likely arrive shortly, please first refresh yourselves with a bath to wash off the fatigue of your journey," [Michikata] said, and the two men proceeded to bathe. At that moment, Tachibana Sakyonosuke handed the bundle containing the imperial decrees and court lady’s official document to Michikata. Michikata reverently received the bundle, clapped his hands, and exclaimed, "Ah, what a blessing! The realm has become Lord Nobunaga’s! Lord Nobunaga must be pleased!" Then he hurried off to his wife’s chambers.

His wife was called Yasui, a talented woman whom Nobunaga greatly favored. Thanks to his wife’s influence—and because her husband now enjoyed Nobunaga’s auspicious favor—he began fussing: “Now now, quickly fix your hair and straighten your robes to await His Lordship’s return! This bundle contains two blessed imperial decrees and the court lady’s document—with this, the realm has at last become Lord Nobunaga’s! We can’t just stand here! Come, hurry, get ready! Get everything ready! How glorious! How divine!” All the while capering about in a frenzied dance by himself.

Nobunaga returned. As usual, he briskly headed to the bath chamber. Michikata chased after him while explaining, "In truth, imperial envoys have arrived regarding such-and-such matters." "Ah, is that so?" replied Nobunaga as he leaped into the bath. Popping his head out from the tub, he fired questions about the envoy: "Is the new robe prepared?" "Most assuredly—not a single oversight remains," Michikata answered. "Since His Majesty the Emperor has deigned to bestow Japan upon us..." he kept muttering like an incantation, "We've received Japan, received it!" So Nobunaga, too, splashed noisily about in the bath, in high spirits.

However, it was no grand imperial decree commanding the rule of Japan. "You—who have lately gained renown for martial fortune and are openly revered by petitioners as a great general of the realm—must therefore prove loyalty to the Imperial Court: submit funds for the Crown Prince’s coming-of-age ceremony, repair the Imperial Palace, and restore the crown estates." Such was the substance of this imperial decree. It amounted to nothing more than pleading for relief from the Imperial family’s destitute circumstances. Well—it might have been merely an inflated loan request—but even this meant Nobunaga now possessed the stature to be petitioned by the Imperial Court itself, a tacit certification of his might.

Nobunaga donned the priestly robe received as a gift, exchanged cups with Lord Tachibana, accepted the two imperial decrees—his spirits soaring a hundredfold—then declared: “Rest assured—I’ll first subdue the neighboring regions before pacifying the realm. For now, stay three to five days at your leisure.” A pre-celebration for the realm’s unification—goose soup and crane sashimi—he summoned five senior vassals and held a banquet.

Thinking to send the same auspicious items to the Imperial Court as well, from the next day onward he diligently went hunting, caught a great number of wild geese and cranes, and had them take back as gifts along with gold coins.

At that time, Nobunaga was thirty-four. Nobunaga was a man who had grown up feral, like the alpha of stray dogs. He heeded no one’s commands, aped no one’s ways—making willfulness his doctrine, a self-fashioned delinquent commander. Such delinquent commanders would all too readily fix their ambitions on becoming supreme ruler of the realm.

When Hase no Jōshu of Ano Village in Tamba’s Kuwata District—Lord Akazawa Kaga-no-kami—traveled to the Kantō region and procured two hawks, then on his return visited Nobunaga in Kiyosu, saying, “Please take whichever you prefer as an offering,” Nobunaga happily replied, “Ah! Your intent is most gratifying. Well then, I’ll accept it! I’ll keep it until I seize the realm. As for thanks—that will come in due time.” "Country brat spouting grand ambitions," people ridiculed his grandiose boasts—but Nobunaga was twenty-eight at the time. He had created and favored a seal reading "Spread Military Rule Under Heaven," making his daily companion a passion for supremacy in the realm—but such ambition was hardly unique to him.

As for ambitions to rule the realm—any delinquent commander could harbor such aspirations. However, confidence was not something that accompanied it. Rather, the more of a master one became, the less confidence one had. It was because they knew fear. A blind snake knew no fear, and fools knew not their place—but it was precisely because masters knew fear that they progressed. Thus, confidence was not something one forged oneself—it was something others forged for one. It was through others’ recognition that one could discover one’s own true ability. Only such ability—discovered through others—constituted true confidence; the aims of ambitious schemers and their presumptuous airs were mere trifles.

Nobunaga was a dashing delinquent commander of his own devising, but he had been a cautious man since his youth—so much so that upon realizing the disadvantage of short spears, he made his retainers prepare three-and-a-half-ken-long spears. Subsequently realizing the advantage of firearms, he changed his primary weapons to firearms. This brought about his unification of the realm, but what lay behind this prudence and insight was a heart of fear. It was likely fear in its highest, most absolute form. To such a Nobunaga, three or four victories would not bring true confidence. Nobunaga possessed an inborn, wild audacity of immense proportions born from his upbringing. An equal measure of anxiety existed. To transform this presumptuous audacity into true confidence required recognition from others—of equal measure to his anxiety—of the highest, most absolute kind.

Nobunaga’s retainers thought their delinquent commander indeed possessed some qualities of a true general—yet remained half-convinced. About five and a half kilometers from Kiyosu, near Hira Castle, there was a pond called Akama. There was a legend called Snake Pond—a place of dread where reed fields stretched unbroken for thirty chō (about 3.3 kilometers).

Though it was still cold in mid-January, when Matazaemon of Anshoku Village walked along Akama Pond’s embankment at dusk, there lay a black torso—about as thick as a man could embrace—on the levee, its neck stretching over the bank and submerging into the pond. When he saw it raise its head at the sound of his approach, its deer-like face bore eyes that gleamed like stars, and its crimson tongue shimmered radiantly—flickering like a human palm splayed open with one arm. He fled back in terror.

About ten days later, this story reached Nobunaga’s ears. He immediately summoned Matazaemon to hear his account, and the next day gathered peasants from five neighboring villages. They lined up hundreds of dippers and began draining water from all sides of Akama Pond—yet even after four hours, the water level hadn’t visibly receded. “Fine then—I’ll dive in and see for myself,” he declared. Stripping down to just a loincloth, he plunged into the icy water with a short sword clenched between his teeth. At the pond’s center, he dove with all his might, bubbles streaming from his lips, but found no serpent. “Maybe my diving’s lacking,” he muttered upon surfacing. He then ordered Usaemon—a swimming expert—to try: “You—get in there.” When even Usaemon found nothing, Nobunaga barked, “Well well—nothing here after all!” before retreating to Kiyosu Castle. This was Nobunaga at twenty-nine.

This empirical spirit was Nobunaga’s defining trait. He had Valignano’s Ethiopian companion stripped naked and scrubbed down to verify his authenticity, and when hearing of a wandering monk named Muhen who claimed origin from an endless land and performed miraculous arts, summoned him to peel away his charlatan’s guise before banishing him. Upon hearing that he continued deceiving women and children even after being exiled, Nobunaga dispatched pursuers across the provinces, had him swiftly captured, and cut him down. He had managed to strip away the deceptive guise of human sorcery, but even Nobunaga, in that age, could not deny the existence of monsters and giant serpents. Far from denying their existence, it must have been Nobunaga—precisely because he believed in them—who dove in wanting to see for himself. His voracious curiosity and empirical spirit were beyond mere talk—utterly reckless. To not let others do it but instead plunge into winter waters himself, clad only in a loincloth with a dagger clenched between his teeth—by some perspectives, this was sheer lunacy. This was not the act of a Japanese-style daimyo or general. His retainers and peasants may have marveled at the ferocity of his reckless daring and trembled in fear, but they remained half-convinced of Nobunaga’s true greatness—unable to fully comprehend it. At twenty-nine—an age when one was considered a fully matured adult by the customs of the time—this commander first had peasants from five villages drain the pond water. When the waterline still refused to recede, he alone plunged into the depths wearing nothing but a loincloth.

He was twenty-eight at the time as well. He suddenly took eighty retainers and traveled to Kyoto. No one could fathom what purpose the journey served. Every neighboring domain was an enemy.

"A fine target you are," thought the Saitō of Gifu as he had dozens of assassins pursue them. By chance having noticed this, Nobunaga boldly marched to the Kyoto inn where the assassins were staying and glared at them as he declared: “You lot—thinking you can kill me in your station? Fools! Come—leap at me now and try to strike!” The assassins paled and trembled violently, but upon hearing this, the Kyoto townsfolk reportedly split into two factions in their critiques—one group declaring, “This hardly seems like the commander’s full capabilities,” while the other insisted, “A young commander must have such fiery vigor.”

Nobunaga had been sightseeing in Kyoto and Sakai when at rainy dawn he abruptly departed and raced back to his castle day and night along twenty-seven ri of mountain paths. This reason too eluded all his retainers. Even to these retainers—constantly dragged about and startled at every turn—it remained unclear whether their commander was truly great or merely a half-mad brute; by thirty Nobunaga still defied definitive judgment. He had apparently subdued Mino and expelled his old enemies the Saitō clan from Gifu. Nobunaga was thirty-four at the time. Yet behind him still loomed Shingen the great warrior monk, Kenshin the priestly strategist, and the Hōjō—each a war master of wholly different caliber from petty foes like Saitō. Nearby waited the Rokkaku, Asakura, and Azai; the Miyoshi faction and Matsunaga Danjō the old viper coiled menacingly; the Mōri lurked as well—true to his inborn presumptuous audacity, he could not possibly harbor firm confidence.

Thereupon, an Imperial decree arrived from the court. First and foremost, it was an Imperial decree far from grand—merely expanding its debt by another round—but in any case, it was as though he had gained acknowledgment as one of the realm’s handful of great commanders, now roughly on par with Shingen and Kenshin. Nobunaga had discovered a measure of confidence for the first time—but it could not be called substantial confidence. What exactly was the Imperial Court? Even the Ashikaga shogunate—who were appointed as Seii Taishogun by the Imperial Court, and whose father too had finally been appointed to Danjō by that same Court—remained Japan’s foremost noble house. Yet in reality, the Imperial Court was but a hollow vessel; the Ashikaga shogun lived or died by the whim of Matsunaga Danjō—the old viper—and the governance of the realm rested entirely within the old viper’s grasp.

An Imperial decree may sound grand in name, but what it truly signified was nothing more than a promissory note exuding only the chill bleakness of a fallen noble house’s sadness, wretchedness, and misery. Please fund the prince’s coming-of-age ceremony; retrieve our revenue lands seized by others that yield not a single coin; do something about the ruined Imperial Palace—leaking rain and battered by winter winds yet beyond our means to repair—rather than inspiring Nobunaga to heroic fervor, their wretchedness struck him first with paralyzing pity.

Of course, Nobunaga’s keen insight had discerned the indispensable utility of the figurehead—that it must not be dismissed. However, it was clearly evident that these Imperial decrees—lofty in name but mere well-framed loan notes and requisition orders—lacked substantial real-world authority. Through this, Nobunaga was able to acknowledge the sprouting of his confidence toward the realm—yet he could not possess true confidence.

Then, a year passed. Ashikaga Yoshiaki, the last Ashikaga shogun, came to rely on him. Around that same time, Matsunaga Danjō—the old viper—sent a missive with honeyed words: "If you lead your troops to march on the capital, I too shall bare my shoulder to assist. You are precisely the commander who should bear the coming age and issue commands to the realm."

The old viper of unparalleled villainy who held the reins of the realm’s governance was indeed feeling the heat. He made his lord rebel against his lord’s master, killed that master’s child to usurp the main house, assassinated the shogun, plucked off each thorn in his side one by one, and finally coiled himself into the seat of the realm’s governance—but with such methods, he had no allies. Or rather, his allies were simultaneously his enemies. In the several years since assassinating the shogun, he had been locked in a war of mutual pursuit with his supposed allies—the Miyoshi three factions—chasing and being chased. Thanks to this, he burned Nara’s Great Buddha Hall in an act of arson, fled to Sakai to apologize, and even the old viper himself abandoned the realm’s governance entirely—escaping, deceiving, launching night raids, so busy with trivial matters that steam rose from his head.

Yet this was the old viper after all. He saw through Nobunaga. He knew the coming era and had discerned the chasm between generations. He did not cling to the hollow prestige of titles like "realm's governance," but had mastered the art of depending on the next era's key players. He who had pushed aside and killed the previous era's players—those who had lost their power—to seize his own generation, had learned from his own bloody history the wisdom of depending on the next era.

Compared to this, Ashikaga Yoshiaki’s manner of dependence on Nobunaga lacked any firm conviction. Yoshiaki—who had made dependency his very nature, using his birth family’s status as a banner—since his brother the shogun had been slain by Matsunaga Danjō, fled and clung to Wada Koremasa, leaned on Rokkaku Yoshikata, beseeched Kenshin for aid, depended on Takeda Yoshimune, relied on Asakura Yoshikage—grappling onto any support within reach. His entire life was one of dependence—indiscriminate in whom he clung to, devoid of trust or loyalty toward any person. If he had simply used them, it would have sufficed.

Exploitation was, moreover, Nobunaga’s own family art. Yet when it came to true villains—there existed, after all, a code of honor. Let none presume to declare Nobunaga no villain. He was a villain. Did he not stake his very being only to cast it all away? He differed from counterfeit rogues like Anchan of the gambling dens. A true villain was a thing of anguish— for they saw humanity’s true form. One who gazed upon humanity’s true face was a demon. A devil. This devil—this villain—was also a path to serving God. Dostoevsky, who ultimately shaped Alyosha’s character—had he not shown that only villains could tread the passageway to that realm?

Both Matsunaga Danjō, the old viper, and Nobunaga were equally villainous in their ways. The old viper had usurped his lord’s house and slain the shogun, but Nobunaga had managed to establish his independence without needing to kill—though in truth, Nobunaga was likely far more cold-blooded when it came to slaughtering men.

The old viper had lived his entire life in self-taught arrogance—a perfect counterpart to Nobunaga—declaring he would survive to 125, applying life-prolonging moxibustion while insisting that proper care could grant longevity to anything. To prove this, he even painstakingly tamed a pine cricket over three years.

The old viper possessed a grotesquely twisted sense of honor befitting his serpentine nature. And though Nobunaga placed no trust in Yoshiaki's heart, he did believe in this honor of the old viper. The peculiar contours of these two villains' camaraderie and the viper's warped code of honor would gradually unfurl themselves in time.

The old viper’s ulterior motive of depending on Nobunaga likely gave Nobunaga’s confidence its greatest stability. And by believing in the truth of dependence and the truth of the old viper’s honor, he made that dependence and honor genuine. By believing in him, Nobunaga conquered the old viper.

The old viper had killed Ashikaga Yoshiaki’s brother—the shogun—and burned his mother to death. His second elder brother too was slain, and Yoshiaki alone escaped to preserve his precarious life. The old viper was none other than Yoshiaki’s mortal and sworn enemy. Yoshiaki had been driven from the capital, and the governance of the realm lay in the old viper’s grasp.

Yoshiaki worked tirelessly to restore the shogunate by clinging to anyone and everyone without distinction—but the day of its restoration was none other than the day of vengeance against the detestable old viper. At last, through Nobunaga’s aid, Yoshiaki restored Kyoto and scattered the old viper’s forces. Was he able to tear the old viper into eight pieces? No, no. It was Nobunaga who had spared the old viper. Having already anticipated that day, the old viper had made himself the very instigator to guide Nobunaga into Kyoto.

There exists such a thing as betrayal in this world. One betrays their lord and sells out their allies without even realizing it. The old viper sold out his allies. Yet he could not sell out his lord. For he himself was the supreme commander. The supreme commander's betrayal—such a thing ought not exist. It was not betrayal—that they called surrender. But because the old viper settled matters in a way that rendered surrender surrender and betrayal betrayal—through some unfathomable alchemy—anything passing through his hands twisted into grotesque and uncanny forms. He had been defeated by Nobunaga's forces marching on the capital, fled to safety, and surrendered—yet months before this defeat and flight, he had already capitulated to Nobunaga and personally urged that very march on the capital.

The old viper, having surrendered, promptly visited Nobunaga and offered various proposals—"This is how Kyoto’s security should be handled"—but his declaration that "Suppressing the Christians is most necessary and vital" enraged the padres. Thus, Yoshiaki could not tear the old viper into eight pieces, but at any rate, he was able to attain his long-cherished position as shogun. At that time, there were two senior retainers of Yoshiaki who were active in negotiations dependent on Nobunaga. One was the honest man Wada Koremasa, and the other was the erudite tactician Akechi Mitsuhide. And through Yoshiaki's recommendation, Mitsuhide became Nobunaga's retainer.

Thus did Nobunaga's demonic realm emerge suddenly atop the squirming mass of vipers and rogues like a castle conjured by a magic lamp in a single night—but what manner of man was Nobunaga? This very question remained an even greater mystery in those days.

★

What manner of man was Nobunaga? Not even his retainers understood. The old retainer of unswerving loyalty who had raised him despaired at the brat general’s foolish antics and took his own life. The brat general was strong only in fighting. He loved combat practice. And even in his youth, he had already attained such mastery of combat tactics that he perceived long spears to be more advantageous than the short spears popular at the time, arming his retainers with three-and-a-half-ken lances. From April to October he would immerse himself in rivers until his water training reached kappa-like mastery; mornings and evenings were for horse practice. Archery under Ichikawa Daisuke, firearms under Hashimoto Ippa, military strategy under Hirata Sanmi—this was his daily regimen. Beyond these, sumo and falconry were his lifelong passions from his days as the brat general until death. Even after unifying the realm, he remained a man who would strip naked to wrestle with servants.

The Brat General, an expert in brawling, waged war with that same roughshod approach and—well—just kept winning somehow. To his retainers, that was all it ever seemed to be.

Nobunaga defeated Imagawa Yoshimoto and rose from fool of a commander to a general of dubious renown across the land—yet among his retainers, suspicions that this was merely a miraculous fluke clung more stubbornly in their minds than in those of strangers who knew nothing of him.

Imagawa Yoshimoto was a pillar of the Tokai region—a renowned commander and a candidate universally acknowledged as fit to unify the realm. His lineage was a prestigious family second only to the Ashikaga. Compared to this, Nobunaga was nothing but the son of a minor daimyo’s magistrate—a country brawler who relied on brute strength to destroy his lord’s house, defeat his own clan, and carve out independence. The Oda forces facing the attack of Imagawa’s forty-thousand-strong army numbered barely three thousand—if they engaged in open battle, it would mean utter annihilation. Thus, the senior retainers at the war council unanimously resolved to fortify Kiyosu Castle, but the Brat General alone vehemently opposed it. At that moment, Nobunaga said, “Victory depends on the luck of the moment.”

For him, that was everything—and with that alone, it sufficed. For he had made all necessary preparations and staked his life. Thus, all that remained was luck. When human efforts had been exerted, the subsequent result should be attributed solely to fortune. There was no regret in that. How many among a million could await such fortune with composure?

Deep within Oda territory stood Odaka Castle, a stronghold of the Imagawa. The Imagawa army advanced while scattering and crushing Oda’s fortresses on all sides, but it soon became clear they would seize Odaka Castle to rest, resupply provisions, and establish it as a forward base. Nobunaga had constructed the Marune and Washizu forts to the front left and right of Odaka Castle, stationed Sakuma Morishige and Oda Genba to guard them, and awaited the advance of the Imagawa forces.

The Imagawa forces advanced on Marune and Washizu. On the night when alerts flew in rapid succession like comb teeth being drawn, Nobunaga held no war council at all, staying up late engrossed in casual conversation until the night deepened, then sent his retainers home with a “It’s late—go.” The senior retainers exited the castle and exchanged glances. Though they muttered that *even the mirror of wisdom clouds at fate’s extremity*, declaring “The Fool of a Commander meets his end today,” each in their own fashion mocked Nobunaga as they walked home along the night road.

The following predawn. A report arrived that the Imagawa forces had finally closed in on Washizu and Marune and launched their attack.

At that moment, Nobunaga stood up and began performing the Atsumori dance while singing resonantly. "Human life is but fifty years— When measured against existence's transformations, Is but a fleeting dream. Having once attained life, How could anything escape destruction?" This was the chant and dance Nobunaga passionately loved throughout his life. Nothing defined his worldview more clearly than this. These lyrics sufficed—for he had staked his very life. Though the chant ended, Nobunaga kept dancing. Still moving to the rhythm, he blew the conch-shell trumpet, had attendants bring his armor, fastened the plates while continuing his dance, ate standing up, donned his helmet, and all while maintaining the dance's cadence, glided out to lead his troops into battle.

The retainers were exasperated by the Fool of a Commander, returned home, and went to sleep. Even if they wake to the sound of the conch shell, nothing will come of it immediately.

The retainers who followed Nobunaga on his campaign numbered a mere five horsemen. Even so, he would occasionally have his horse circle round and round on the road, waiting for some of his retainers to prepare and catch up. And by the time they reached Atsuta, their numbers had grown to six horsemen and over two hundred foot soldiers.

Having prayed for victory at Atsuta Shrine, Nobunaga leaned against his saddle when the time came to depart, humming through his nose while leisurely neglecting to issue commands. It recreated the image of that foolish brat who used to drape himself over people’s shoulders and stroll through town munching melons. News arrived en route that the fort had fallen and garrison commander Sakuma Daigaku and others had perished in battle. Soldiers retreating from the forts joined them along the way, swelling their numbers to around three thousand men. The Imagawa vanguard had entered Odaka Castle to resupply provisions, while Yoshimoto assembled his main forces at Dengaku-hazama and chanted a victory song.

Nobunaga launched a surprise attack there. While Imagawa Yoshimoto was still wondering whether his allies had started fighting among themselves in fratricidal combat, Oda’s samurai had already leaped upon him and severed his head.

Nobunaga’s wars were always like this. Not waiting for his retainers to complete their preparations and setting out for battle with only about ten men at his side was not something limited to this war. The retainers floundered in panic, dragged about by Nobunaga without so much as a chance to protest, and before they knew it, the war had ended—and they had won.

Because the victories lacked logical coherence and seemed utterly irrational—yet they kept winning with such ease—Nobunaga declared that triumph hinged on fortune, but his retainers could only perceive that fortune as mere flukes, accidental successes, strokes of blind luck. They could not rationally comprehend Nobunaga’s greatness.

For Nobunaga, everything had been meticulously orchestrated. That’s what makes one an expert. There are many soldiers and generals. There are many generals and marshals. But true experts are scarcely found among them. The same goes for artists.

For Nobunaga, the twenty-seven years from his birth until toppling the Imagawa—everything he saw, everything he heard—had all been meticulously structured for that purpose. This purpose was not limited to the Imagawa alone. Whether it had been Takeda or Uesugi, it would have sufficed. Everything had been engineered for the immediate objectives at hand—this structuring possessed a machine-like logic, but his retainers could not comprehend it. Particularly the retainers, having long been dazzled by Nobunaga’s unconventional foolishness since childhood, found it difficult to dispel their unease that his successes were mere flukes.

Nobunaga lost his father when he was sixteen. At the incense offering during his father’s funeral, Nobunaga appeared without wearing hakama. His hair was in a chasen-gami style—a fundoshi-katsugi topknot—and his waist sword was bound with shimenawa rope; appearing like a delinquent boy returning from river fishing, he barged up to the Buddhist altar, grabbed a fistful of incense powder, and hurled it at the altar. What is a corpse? It is bleached bones. It is the truth expounded by Buddhists and known to all mankind, but how many can coolly confront that reality?

The delinquent Nobunaga could not walk through town without munching chestnuts, stuffing his cheeks with rice cakes, biting into melons, leaning on people’s shoulders, or draping himself over them as he went. The utterly exasperating Foolish Young Lord, the Grand Buffoon—this was the established reputation throughout the castle town.

Hirate Masahide, the old retainer who had raised Nobunaga, left behind a written remonstrance and took his own life. That loyalty—that sincerity of heart—even the delinquent had his guts wrenched by it. The delinquent threw a bird he had caught hawking high into the empty sky and said, "Old man, eat this." Standing by the riverside where he practiced swimming, he would occasionally well up with tears, kick up river water with his foot, and shout, "Old man, drink this!" The sight of those who emptied themselves moved even the souls of villains. What Nobunaga saw in Hideyoshi’s loyalty was also a sincerity that negated oneself. What Nobunaga saw in Ieyasu’s alliance was also a self-sacrificing fidelity akin to that. The unruly youth of grand ambition must have wanted to keep the sincere old man alive at least until the day when even a fragment of his ambitions came to fruition—to show him that day. However, despite the old man’s death by remonstration, no change whatsoever could be seen in the delinquent’s mad antics.

The sincere old man, foreseeing the future of the Grand Buffoon Foolish Young Lord, took a daughter from the neighboring Saitō Dōsan and arranged her marriage to Nobunaga. The Saitō and Oda clans, adjoined in Mino and Owari, had been sworn enemies for years—attacking and being attacked, fighting to a stalemate—but with the era of the Foolish Young Lord, there arose the fear that they would be swiftly crushed. The old man had feared that. Saitō Dōsan was also a geezer of about sixty. This was also one of the undisputed masterminds behind the great villains of the realm at that time. That old viper was the realm’s administrator; this dandy geezer was a daimyo. While there was some disparity in their status, when it came to being masterminds of wickedness and lawlessness, everyone at the time would count these two geezers on their fingers—but stopped short of bending a third.

Born into a family of masterless samurai, he was sent to Myōkaku-ji Temple in Kyoto to become a monk during his youth. As a beautiful youth resembling a flower, intellectually astute and beloved by his master monk, he swiftly mastered Buddhism’s profound mysteries; with refreshing eloquence, he came to be hailed as a renowned monk despite his tender years. There was a junior disciple two years his junior named Nanyōbō—a scion of an illustrious family—who was also highly erudite, a renowned monk versed in all disciplines despite his youth. The two were extremely close, but Dōsan grew weary of monkhood, returned to secular life, took a wife, and began peddling oil.

He would stand at crossroads, gather a crowd, spin his web of lies with smooth talk—essentially operating as a street hawker—deceive them with his silver tongue, and extract their mon coins. “Step right up, step right up! Incompetent merchants pour oil through a funnel—their hands are clumsy and their oil’s rancid!” “Smoothly, steadily flowing in a single unbroken stream—this here’s proper oil!” “Step right up!” “This monk-turned-lord’s oil is quality oil.” “Are you watching?” “This monk-turned-lord scoops up oil with a ladle.” “I pour it into the container like so.” “Smoothly, smoothly—a single unbroken thread! Behold—through the hole of this holed mon coin it flows, smoothly, smoothly.” “If by chance the oil touches the edge of the hole, I won’t take a single coin.” “Now look sharp, all of you—does even one drop graze the edge? Watch! Smoothly, smoothly.”

The skill of a master—through the hole, oil had never touched the rim. Word spread far and wide that the finest oil was exclusively that sold by the one-mon coin oil peddler, and he swiftly amassed a fortune. While peddling oil, he devoted himself to military strategy, relied on his former fellow monk Nanyōbō, became a retainer of Nagai of Mino, killed Nagai, received a son-in-law from Nagai’s overlord, the Toki clan, poisoned that son-in-law, expelled the Toki clan, became master of all Mino Province, and established himself at Gifu Inabayama Castle.

To slay one’s lord and murder one’s son-in-law was the path to self-preservation—in times past it was Nagata; now it was Yamashiro. That was the lampoon of the time. Yamashiro referred to Saitō Yamashiro Nyūdō Dōsan. He would tear apart minor offenders with oxen, boil them alive in cauldrons, and moreover make their wives, parents, and siblings light the fires beneath those very cauldrons. The true originator of cauldron boiling was not Ishikawa Goemon. He was a wicked and cunning schemer, but skilled in military strategy. Like Nobunaga, he recognized the advantage of long spears and knew firearms to be formidable weapons, devoting himself to gunnery. Akechi Mitsuhide was a master of gunnery, but it is said he studied under Saitō Dōsan.

With such a villain in the neighboring country—and since Nobunaga’s father had spent years seizing opportunities to attack or be attacked by this sworn enemy—Hirate Masahide, serving as Nobunaga’s guardian, arranged for the young lord to marry Dōsan’s daughter as preparation for future contingencies. Dōsan considered political marriages perfectly acceptable. If the other party was willing, he saw no reason to hesitate. He’d never been one to fuss over wringing the neck of a son-in-law or two. Yet Dōsan, true to his villain’s intuition, recognized what others called the Grand Buffoon—the Foolish Young Lord. “In this lord’s generation, their house will surely collapse”—so went the prevailing opinion. It was none other than the established consensus among the Oda clan’s own retainers. But even this villain refused to blindly swallow such worldly assumptions.

Whenever people called that brat a fool, he would ask, “Is that true? Why?” And he would declare that the boy was no fool. He was said to walk along the road with his topknot tied up over his fundoshi loincloth, wearing a yukata with one sleeve torn off, seven or eight fire pouches and gourds dangling from his waist, hanging onto people’s shoulders while stuffing his cheeks with melons and munching on rice cakes. Indeed, his manners were anything but those befitting a young lord. To sneak into his father’s funeral in everyday clothes and then scoop up a handful of incense and hurl it—what an idiot.

But hadn't they said his water skills rivaled a kappa's? Hadn't they claimed he was a master who could ride wild horses to death through merciless driving? Hadn't they insisted he'd mastered gunnery and grasped the tactical value of long spears? Even just his brute strength—wasn't that proof enough he was a schemer?

However, not a single soul agreed with Dōsan’s opinion. “Ahaha, preposterous! That’s an undeniably utter fool,” declared every last one of them.

"Is that so? Well, there’s no understanding without seeing the real thing. Let’s summon that foolish son-in-law and have some fun with him—so smirked the dandy villainous geezer as he hatched his plan and dispatched envoys to arrange a meeting at Shōtoku-ji Temple in Tomita on such-and-such date."

At that time, Nobunaga was nineteen. It was exactly the sort of thing a villainous geezer who’d casually trick his son-in-law and twist him to death would do—but Nobunaga didn’t give a damn. He immediately gave his consent. Dōsan’s original idea had been to determine through firsthand observation whether Nobunaga was a fool or not—but since everyone kept proclaiming the boy an utter, irredeemable idiot, he too found himself increasingly inclined to mock this foolish son-in-law.

Dōsan arrived first at Shōtoku-ji Temple in Futada， deliberately lining up seven or eight hundred grizzled old samurai of imposing dignity along the temple’s veranda—all clad in stiffly starched ceremonial robes and hakama trousers， creating an utterly solemn display. The ill-mannered brat passed before this. The imposing line of stern-faced high-ranking monks—glaring wide-eyed and maintaining dignified postures—was all a ploy to make the foolish son-in-law gape in astonishment.

Having made these arrangements, Dōsan hid in a small house on the outskirts of town and peered out from there, waiting for Nobunaga to pass by.

Nobunaga’s group arrived. Following the vanguard came seven to eight hundred attendants, then five hundred vermilion-tasseled spears of three-and-a-half ken length, and five hundred bows and firearms—all splendidly appropriate in their appointments.

However, the foolish son-in-law was too outrageous. As had long been rumored, he looked exactly as he did when hanging onto people’s shoulders and munching on melons while walking through the castle town. His head bore his signature loincloth topknot. His hair was coiled tightly with a chartreuse cord. This was no occasion for formal jackets and trousers. In a casually worn yukata, and what’s more, stripped to the waist. The large and small swords at his waist were wound tightly with binding rope in spirals, and ropes were coiled around his bare arms—apparently intended to serve as arm guards. Around his waist hung seven or eight fire pouches and gourds, making him look exactly like a monkey handler. In accordance with equestrian practice, he wore half-length hakama patched together from tiger and leopard skins.

When this group entered the temple designated for Nobunaga’s rest, Dōsan—having ascertained the fool’s true nature—returned to his own temple with an innocent face. However, Dōsan too had been given a taste of his own medicine. Nor was it just Dōsan.

Nobunaga's retainers were scared out of their wits. Upon entering the rest area, he immediately drew the folding screen around himself. Nobunaga retied his hair into an impeccable style, donned a long hakama dyed at some unknown time—even his secretary Ota Gyuichi was unaware of when it had been dyed—fastened a dagger crafted in secret, and emerged in magnificent lordly attire. Not a single one of his attendants had ever seen such a figure, even in their dreams. Nobunaga glided smoothly into the hall. Upon ascending the veranda, the guiding samurai official gestured inward with a "Now then, please come this way," but Nobunaga—feigning ignorance—smoothly glided past the row of wide-eyed senior monks sitting in ceremonial display, then leaned against a veranda pillar wearing an idiotic expression.

As Nobunaga leaned against the pillar for a while, Dōsan pushed aside the folding screen and emerged. Dōsan too pretended not to notice. When the samurai official approached Nobunaga and announced, “This is Lord Yamashiro,” Nobunaga—leaning against the pillar— “So it is.” he said. Then he stepped inside the threshold, exchanged greetings with Dōsan, proceeded together to the sitting room where they shared sake cups, ate rice soaked in hot water, concluded their meeting in an utterly ordinary manner, said “Let us meet again,” and parted.

Dōsan saw him off for about twenty chō, but upon noticing that Nobunaga’s spears were longer than his own, his interest waned; after parting with Nobunaga, he did not utter a single word.

They walked in silence, and when they reached a place called Akanahe, Inoko Hyōsuke turned to Dōsan and

“What do you think? After all, that guy’s a fool, don’t you think?”

When he said this,

“Well then. Regrettably and frustratingly enough—it’s inevitable my idiot children will end up holding Nobunaga’s horse’s bit.”

Dōsan replied. His Buddha-like countenance showed no sign of softening for some time.

He realized he had been thoroughly outmaneuvered by Nobunaga. He had meant to be the one pulling the strings—the bitter aftertaste was overwhelming. Dōsan had been able to straightforwardly discern Nobunaga’s true character, but since Nobunaga’s retainers lacked such forthrightness, they ultimately failed to comprehend their lord. They saw Nobunaga’s lordly bearing for the first time and wondered if this too might be some mad act to deceive enemies—yet even so, they could not fully reconcile this with their master’s entirety.

Nobunaga had never even considered such notions as deceiving enemies. He toyed with people. He did not regard people as people. What the world speculated—what passed for societal norms—held no significance. His loincloth-bound topknot was simply practical, and he merely wanted to eat melons while walking. Even as a magnificent general in his prime, this was the Nobunaga who would plunge into ponds with bubbling splashes—clad only in a loincloth beneath winter skies, a dagger clenched between his teeth—to investigate rumors of giant serpents.

Because the very foundations of their logical reasoning differed, Nobunaga’s retainers could never properly comprehend this man of supremely clear rationality. A monk named Tenzaku from Ten'ei Temple near Kiyosu passed through Kai Province while journeying down to the Kantō region. When Takeda Shingen heard that a monk from Nobunaga’s domain had come, he summoned Tenzaku to his residence. What Shingen wanted to know was what kind of man Nobunaga was. Shingen’s inquiry to Tenzaku was this: to tell him everything without omission—what kind of daily life Nobunaga led.

So he matter-of-factly replied that [Nobunaga] rode horses morning and evening, learned firearms from Hashimoto Ippa, archery from Ichikawa Daisuke, and military strategy from Hirata Sanmi as his daily routine, and that beyond this, he was constantly out hawking. “Hmm. Does he enjoy hawking? And what other hobbies does Nobunaga have?” “Dances and ballads.”

“Dances and ballads, eh? Is even Koizumi Dayū going to instruct him?” “No—a townsman from Kiyosu named Tomoyasu acts as his instructor. He only dances the Atsumori piece—nothing else.” “*Human life spans fifty years—set against the realm of metamorphosis, it seems but a fleeting dream. Once born, none who escapes destruction.* He particularly enjoys chanting and dancing this very passage himself.” “Apart from that, there is one ballad he favors and sings regularly.”

“Hmm.” “He has quite eccentric tastes, doesn’t he?”

Though Shingen laughed this way, he was dead serious.

“What kind of ballad is that?” “Death’s spouse is certain—what use is secrecy’s herb? A tale certain to cross over—it’s a ballad that goes like this.”

“Put a melody to it and show me how it goes.”

“I have never yet set a melody to a ballad and sung it. As I am but a monk, I am thoroughly unsuited to such refined matters.”

“No, no. “Never mind.” “As you heard with your own ears—anyway, try to mimic it.” Monk Tenzaku—having no choice—imitated and sang a nonsensical ballad. Shingen listened intently. Then he inquired about Nobunaga’s hawking: how many people participated; what locations they used; what precise methods they employed.

There, Tenzaku answered. In Nobunaga’s hawking expeditions, there were first twenty men called bird watchers. These men would venture two or three ri ahead—and each time they found a hawk in that village or a crane in this hamlet—they would leave one guard per bird behind while one would rush back to report. Then Nobunaga would rush to the site with an entourage of three archers and three spearmen, bringing along a man on horseback named Yamaguchi Tarōbee.

When Tarōbee on horseback—disguised with straw—stealthily circled around the birds while gradually closing in, Nobunaga approached from the shadow of his mount with a hawk concealed on his fist, then abruptly dashed forward to release the raptor. There existed a role called mukaimachi—these men would pose as farmers waiting while pretending to till fields, restraining the prey whenever hawk and bird became locked in combat. “As His Lordship Nobunaga possesses remarkable skill, he frequently secures the quarry himself.”

Takeda Shingen nodded deeply. “I see now. That man being a master of warfare also stands to reason.”

With that, he appeared thoroughly convinced. When Tenzaku announced his departure, Shingen—in good spirits—kindly advised him: "Do stop by on your return journey." Of course, to Shingen too, Nobunaga remained an intensely perplexing commander. From Tenzaku's account—had he truly grasped an accurate image of Nobunaga? Tenzaku's narrative had indeed touched upon essential facets of Nobunaga's character. The unique hunting methods, that cherished ballad—here truly lay one key to deciphering him. Yet though Shingen had meticulously extracted every detail through interrogation—could he have apprehended Nobunaga's true nature as we today assess him in historically complete form? No—Shingen harbored a fatal blind spot barring true comprehension. As for that curiosity driving him to plunge alone into serpent dens wearing naught but a loincloth—precisely because executed with such reckless daring, even Shingen would click his tongue in awe, never deigning to scorn. Yet to Shingen, this remained ultimately mere curiosity. That Nobunaga's entirety resided in possessing the world's rarest and loftiest scientific soul—this Shingen could never fathom. He'd have accepted serpent-devoured death without protest. For a samurai—whose life belongs on battlefields—to perish by snakebite! Yet for the absolute being—what distinction exists between battlefield death and serpent's fang? Not that this empirical spirit craving serpent sightings held nobility. What constitutes realm unification? What defines ambition? What embodies empirical spirit? Strip away one layer—humans are but Death's certain lot. Was this not all?

The final philosophy of world-renouncing ascetics was embodied in Nobunaga. Yet he did not renounce the world. He was merely throwing himself into war and throwing himself into unifying the realm under heaven. Peel back one layer, and Death's certain lot—that was his entirety, and things like the realm under heaven amounted to nothing. He would have been fine dying at any time, and he would have been fine living indefinitely. And Nobunaga—who would have been fine dying at any time—knew better than anyone what life truly was, precisely because of this. To live is total play. All his painstaking endeavors, all his calculated strategies, all his soul—it was play staked with life itself. All time was but that.

Nobunaga was a demon. For he was a man who perfectly embodied that ultimate philosophy.

However, this demon possessed almost no trace of lechery. He neither hungered for rare delicacies nor coveted golden pavilions. This abstinence stemmed not from morality. He simply felt no compulsion for such things. The Old Viper reveled in appalling wickedness while indulging his lusts. He conducted state affairs from bed, summoning retainers amidst cavorting with beauties. This too owed nothing to morality. It arose from necessity alone. For demons, such distinctions meant nothing. Nobunaga's ascetic rigor and the Old Viper's debauchery were ultimately cut from the same cloth.

Nobunaga had his adopted daughter wed to Shingen's successor Katsuyori, diligently cultivating goodwill between them. There was no reason to willingly clash with that war-savvy Monk Shingen. Actively seeking disadvantage was unnecessary. For Nobunaga, cultivating goodwill was child’s play. Then he received an imperial decree, accepted inexplicable overtures from the Old Viper—whether surrender or friendship—the following year, and undertook Yoshiaki’s request.

Nobunaga promptly welcomed Yoshiaki, met him at Nishishō and Risshōji Temple, immediately prepared military forces to retake Kyoto, advanced without hesitation, and dashed into the capital in no time. Because things moved far too quickly, even the Old Viper found himself flustered. Despite having covertly communicated and long shown friendship, when suddenly pressed forward to his very knees without so much as a greeting—like a bird taking flight from his feet—the Old Viper panicked, steam practically rising from his head as he grumbled and tried to mount a defense, but this ancient schemer had never been strong in warfare. He had somehow seized the realm through underhanded tricks and smooth talk, but when it came to actual battles, he rarely ever won. In a desperate gambit, he launched a night raid on the Great Buddha Hall and set it ablaze—but even while creating this pathetic spectacle, he still ended up defeated and fleeing. He would always lose, then smooth things over with glib talk, leaving matters unresolved.

As was usual, the Old Viper’s ability to flee was nothing short of remarkable. When it came to fleeing, there was not a hint of peril. He gathered his troops and swiftly fled to Yamato, then surrendered with perfect docility.

Yoshiaki, who had entered the capital with Nobunaga and assumed the position of shogun, left all matters to Nobunaga’s discretion and pretended to regard his benevolence as a virtue—but when it came to the Old Viper’s execution, even he vehemently insisted. However, Nobunaga did not comply. Not only was the Old Viper’s life spared, but he was permitted to retain Shigi Castle as it stood, and Yamato Province was entrusted to him for its conquest. It was a friendship between kindred demons. The Old Viper promptly came to pay his respects and, with utmost enthusiasm, expounded his expertise while offering all manner of political advice.

However, it must be said that this inexplicable friendship was remarkably pristine. It was a mystery beyond the comprehension of mere mortals. How, then, did this friendship blossom, and how did it come to rupture? (Unfinished)