A Time Traveller's Guide To Feudal Japan

Tens of thousands of people would soon be caught up in a ruthless war, and rivers of blood would surely flow, and still, the world continued to turn, and one day ran into the next. They gathered on the border of Mikawa.

The strangest atmosphere. Eight thousand men stood together in a mass, and not a single one of them spoke. The sky objected to their presence. Gray clouds blocked out the sun’s, and threatened to unleash the rain. A gust of wind swept through them, casting messy hair up out behind them. Grim faces squinted against the clouds of dust. They were exhausted. The regret was obvious.

This was the first battle for many of them. In response to Gengyo’s and Matsudaira’s rousing speeches, they had grasped for their spears, so full of vigour, ready to take on the entire world. Days upon days of marching did much to dampen that sensation. If a sadistic man ever wished to truly test his comrade’s resolve, present him with a task that would require his utmost determination. That man would pull his face, and clench his muscles, ready to confront it. It would be difficult, but it was no true test. Try the same situation, after days of sleeplessness. That would test the man’s entirety. His essence.

The elite stood either side of the masses. The core of the hidden Matsudairan army, some thousand men, five hundred of which were mounted. And then to the other side, the one thousand five hundred that had overcome the impossible, and grasped the scorching flames of glory with their bare fingers.

It was to the point that a single exaggerated exhale could be heard. There were two men mounted, their purebred warhorses snorting in distaste, pawing at the ground. They were meant for violence, not words.

Only those two were mounted, out of respect. All others stood to the side of their horses, waiting respectfully. Amongst the Matsudairan elite, there stood three old men brought out of retirement. Their many wrinkles were like a map of all that they endured. Even good news made them mistrustful. Their old eyes of waning sight still held immense criticism. Like all others, they kept their eyes pinned to a single man.

He held the flag of his people proudly in his hand, allowing it to flutter in the wind, showing no sign of discomfort despite its weight. The golden triple leaves encapsulated in a golden circle. The supposedly fallen Motoyasu and his meagre clan resurrected.

The two men were both adorned in black – Matsudaira had ordered his purposefully dyed as per the Red Feather convention. Their horses too sported their own black leather armour, though one stallion was white, and another black.

Upon the white stallion there sat a man in a world of his own. At his hip, there were sheathed the two swords that symbolised his profession. His expression was one of the utmost calm. His lips were not quite curled in a smile, but they looked as though they were want to at the slightest provocation. They waited on his words, yet like a mountain, he showed no signs of movement.

The man to his left slowly dismounted with his flag still in hand, his leather armour creaking in response to the sudden movement. He moved his way in front of his new master, his every action purposeful, ceremonial. He drove the shaft of his flag into the earth, getting to one knee, drawing his sword, and laying it down in front of him.

"From this day, until all days forward, the Matsudaira clan pledges its blades and its soldiers to the Miura clan, and their head, Miura Tadakata." His words were solemn, and laced with the deepest of respect. It was an agreement that had already passed between them, but now it was reperformed for the eyes of the peasants, and all new members.

With a single action, they understood, every single one of them. The heart of Matsudaira Motoyasu – greatest general under Imagawa – had been won.

"Rise, Grand General Matsudaira." The mountain finally moved and spoke. There was an odd quality to his words. Every syllable was carefully enunciated. Soft words with strength, like the breeze that had just passed them. It was a charisma impossible to replicate. The rising irritation in their hearts faded away, replaced by a blank canvas demanding a talented artist.

After all the battles, Gengyo was forced to distinguish rank. It was the only way to attempt to make use of the untrained peasants. He placed an elite soldier with each set of thirty peasants, and he named them Captain. To his most trusted men, he gave them a hundred men each, and named them Commander. To his most talented retainers, he gave them a thousand men, and named them General. To Matsudaira, he gave command of his entire army, and named him Grand General.

"Lord!" He got to his feet with haste, slamming his feet into the ground. A display of obedience. The lesser men would attempt to imitate the greater. Necessary acts recommended more by intuition than thought.

"Warriors of the Red Feather army, greet your leader. To Matsudaira Motoyasu, I give command of my entire army." The two men faced the crowd together. Though it concerned him, it was even a surprise to Motoyasu. Everyone had expected that he would have a good amount of authority, but to give the entire army to him – as though he would not be commanding it himself – caused a stir, so he moved to explain. "He will decide on our strategy, our tactics, and how we will claim victory in this battle. That responsibility will be entirely his."

His eyes were firmly pointed in a certain direction, and he did not flinch or bother to look in any other. It was a statement to three mistrustful old men. A message that they received with a nod. It was a demonstration of the trust that he placed within their clan. It was a move that immediately separated him from Imagawa Yoshimoto. That man would never have dared to give him such authority, fearing a rebellion.