A Time Traveller's Guide To Feudal Japan

He looked towards Matsudaira’s headquarters almost comically. Even in the middle of battle, he was inclined to be awkward. None the less, the fan was raised. The signal was given. The blade of a god would be drawn.

As that polished steel slipped from its scabbard, the air felt considerably colder. The rain clouds groaned and the sky thundered. With his sword raised, lightning crackled across the sky behind him. They did not need to be told. They knew their Daimyo had entered the battlefield.

"He’s here... JUST A LITTLE LONGER EVERYONE!" Akiko shouted.

"OORAH!" Their morale soared. The circle that was closing in on them – with a single simultaneous shrug – was cast back and a unified thrust followed it. Their spirit was electric. The tired soldiers were shocked back to life.

"What... What is that?" Hara gasped, feeling a distinct chill pass down his spine. These were different men to those they had been previously fighting. They were strangely energised, as though possessed by something.

Akiyama’s eyebrow quivered. There was only one explanation he could think of. Their spirit was akin to religious fervour. It was something he recognised from his skirmishes with the Ikko Ikki sects, though this was much more well-grounded than what he had seen back then. Far purer and far more powerful. "Their Daimyo... That Miura... He’s their God. Just how strong do you have to be to have thousands instil their belief entirely in you? Just what can he do by himself? What have we overlooked?"

The sky was growing darker and darker. The hell that they thought they had built through the means of the keyhole was turned against them. It was no longer they who had trapped the enemy inside with them, but they who had been trapped inside with the enemy.

Gengyo moved his neck this way and that, stimulating a pleasant crack. "Ah. Now that’s more comfortable." There was a man charging towards him, a strong aura leaking from every pore of his body, but this monkly commander leisurely took the time to dismount from his horse, about to admire the scenery.

"MIURA TADAKATA! PREPARE YOURSELF!" Ichijo barked, pushing his horse even harder, grabbing his blade with both hands, spitting up mud behind him, galloping forward ever faster, intent on capturing this fool’s head.

"COME THEN, ICHIJO! YOU’VE TAKEN SOME PRECIOUS ASSETS FROM ME!" He shouted back, setting his feet firmly in the mud, unwavering, supremely confident despite having already surrendered his mount.

"RAHHHH!" Ichijo let out his roar. He would not be the one to dodge and pull his mount to the side. He would leave that to a lesser man.

Gradually, Gengyo worked up some speed of his own, pattering across the soggy plains lightly, not allowing his feet to sink. Soon he was engaged in a sprint, almost rivalling Ichijo’s horse at top speed.

"What... What is he doing?" This time it was Nobunaga’s turn to raise a question. All the moves Gengyo had taken went entirely against battlefield logic. Leaving his men behind to engage the enemy by himself, descending from his horse. Just what was he thinking? Could it be that he truly expected to win?

Shingen found himself staring, wide-eyed. That kind of confidence... It was terrifying. Just what kind of power did he wield? His heart raced with nervousness. His plan, his play, it had all been perfect. There had not been a single blunder. Why then? Why did he feel so uneasy? Just what manner of man was this Miura Tadakata?

"This is it... My Lord." Matsudaira whispered with a smile, his fist clenched, excitement running through him. He’d done everything in his power to set the stage for his Daimyo. It was all down to him now. It was time for the world to see the full worth of Gengyo the time traveller.

They were metres apart. The world could be seen in perfect clarity. The globules of saliva that drifted from the warhorse’s mouth as it wrestled with its bit. The pink of its tongue. The red of its eyes. The clenching knees of Ichijo that braced him in place, preventing him from falling even at top speed.

Ichijo leaned to the left of his saddle for a better swing, putting the entire weight of his body to use. A single crushing downwards slash from a horse running at full speed. There was no blocking that.

Gengyo remained perfectly calm. When their paths crossed, he did not raise his blade, but spun instead, dancing out of the way of death. In the same motion, just before the horse had passed completely, his blade passed through the back of it’s leg, lopping it off entirely.

His perfect dance came to a halt and he gracefully flicked the blood from his blade, pausing to admire his handiwork. The horse did not even know itself to be missing half a limb. It pounded forward still, not even slowing. The instant it tried to reenter that forth leg into the motion, it found nothing but air and began to crash sideways, naying loudly in protest.

It brought Ichijo with it, trapping him underneath. Together the two of them skidded through the mud, travelling a good distance before they finally came to a screeching halt, covered in dirt.

"What... What is he?" Hirate gasped, wide-eyed. The same Ichijo that had confronted three Generals by his lonesome without conceding even a scratch. That same man had been made to look like a child at the hands of this Daimyo.

"NOW! WE’RE MOVING NOW!" Oda roared, panicking. If they did not lend a hand – even if it was the final stages of battle – then it might be them ending up on the end of his blade. Instinctively, with every fibre of his being, he knew he did not want this man for an enemy. Not now, not ever.

At his command, two thousand cavalrymen parted from the trees and the nail was put in Shingen’s dark coffin.