Chapter 135
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 135
Chapter Title: Okehazama (6)
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"You're here."
Imagawa Yoshimoto murmured those words inside the tent splattered with bloody water, then casually poured himself another cup of sake as if the corpse of the courtesan girl beside him meant nothing at all.
Was it because of his nonchalant attitude?
Or perhaps because, no matter how spacious the tent was, Baek Il-yeong could take it all in at a glance?
Il-yeong soon realized that the bodies strewn across the floor weren't just samurai—there were boys and girls from the pleasure quarters as well—and his face hardened.
"......Tch."
"Hah."
It wasn't just Il-yeong.
Mori Yoshinari, Oda Nobunaga, and the other escorts who had entered the tent with him weren't fools either. They could easily guess what had happened inside.
'They were having a drinking party when they got ambushed, so he killed them all?'
This time, even Nobunaga grimaced.
It was only natural.
Samurai killing samurai.
In these chaotic times, it was utterly commonplace—in fact, a samurai who couldn't do it had no reason to exist. But that only applied to warriors who wielded swords.
Yes, surely it did.
But what reason could there possibly be to slaughter boys and girls from the pleasure quarters, who sold their bodies just to survive?
"......"
"......"
Mori Yoshinari fixed Imagawa Yoshimoto with a cold stare, while Oda Nobunaga glared at him with eyes full of contempt and mockery.
But Il-yeong was different.
'So that's Imagawa Yoshimoto.'
He gripped the hilt of his blood-soaked sword and stared intently at the man. Of course, even Il-yeong felt rage at the deaths of children not yet grown. The frantic pounding of his heart and chest was proof enough.
Yet what he focused on wasn't their corpses, but Imagawa Yoshimoto, who was still calmly pouring sake into his cup.
"Kuk, ku ku kuk."
Whatever amused him so much, he had already drained four cups since they entered, and the sight itself hinted at madness—but that was only the beginning.
—Kwachuk!
"Wh-what?"
At the sudden sound of pottery shattering in front of them, the samurai who had been taking in the corpses turned in surprise. They soon witnessed Imagawa Yoshimoto down the last of his sake, then chew and swallow the cup itself.
Chewing the cup.
It might sound trivial in words, but considering how the sharp shards would tear his mouth and let blood flow, it was no pleasant sight.
No, calling it unpleasant was an understatement.
Kaduk, kaduk—!
"Kuk, ku kuk kuk, kuhahaha!"
As he burst into mad laughter, he finally chewed through the cup, blood streaming long from his powdered white jaw, which he wiped away with the back of his hand. The sight was pure insanity, filling them with horror or revulsion they couldn't suppress.
But that lasted only a moment.
"Hng."
Imagawa Yoshimoto, not content with devouring the cup, licked the blood from his lips, rose from his seat, and grasped the ōdachi that lay stretched out on the floor.
Its blade, more than twice the length of a normal sword, dripped the blood it hadn't fully shed onto the ground. At the same time, Imagawa Yoshimoto grinned, baring teeth stained black with lacquer and blood.
"So, you're the Yaksha."
As if it were the most natural thing, he recited Il-yeong's nickname. Hearing it, Il-yeong gave a wry smile in response.
"Yeah. That's me, the Yaksha."
"Hahahahahaha!"
There was no need for courtesy when they'd come to take his head. But seeing Imagawa Yoshimoto laugh as if the tent might collapse, Il-yeong could only manage a smirk—no, perhaps a smile closer to embarrassment.
It was only natural.
He already knew how history would describe Imagawa Yoshimoto.
'Fat, legs too short to even ride a warhorse, narrow-minded and petty. Obsessed with Kyoto's aristocratic culture, mad for luxury goods and aping nobles—a utterly incompetent fool.'
Even Il-yeong had dismissed it as nonsense before meeting him, but it had once been an accepted view of the man.
'What bullshit.'
Of course, he knew from books that it was part of the Meiji regime's deliberate downgrading after the Meiji Restoration.
There were many reasons, but the Imagawa were kin to the shogun, and the new generation leading the Restoration needed to justify the old one's failures. It was necessary work.
Whatever.
But still.
"This is unexpected."
Il-yeong muttered low enough not to be overheard and bit his lip.
No matter how optimistic one was, could anyone claim that the man above had risen from the bottom of the succession to swallow his clan whole, then become a great daimyo ruling Suruga, Totomi, and Mikawa provinces?
If you had any common sense, it wasn't hard to see it was intentional defamation.
Naturally, Il-yeong intended to cut him down but treated him with caution, not ridicule.
Yet facing him now, he couldn't help thinking it was too much.
'Those bastards. If you're gonna lie, at least make it believable.'
He swallowed the curses rising to his lips and stared at the man before him.
He wasn't taller than Il-yeong.
But his build proved the warhorse nonsense utterly ridiculous—it was the frame of a true warrior. And his eyes, gleaming sharply despite the powder, showed no fragility or delusion.
The massive ōdachi in his hand alone suggested this battle wouldn't be easy.
And Il-yeong soon realized something.
His thoughts had lingered too long.
"I admit it. Whether it was that brat Oda Nobunaga who planned this raid, you Hirate Hikage, or someone else, you landed a solid hit."
Imagawa Yoshimoto stopped laughing and spoke. Naturally, Nobunaga wouldn't stay silent for such arrogance.
"The guy who cowered in Sunpu, too scared to even lift his fat ass when my father was alive. Now you strut like some hero. Tch."
Rain made matchlocks unreliable.
So she had killed the woman trying to wag her tail at Il-yeong—unfairly, from Ii Naomasa's perspective—and discarded her matchlock for her katana.
She slung it over her armor's shoulder with a thud and sneered at Imagawa Yoshimoto, who stared back.
"I'll kill you, monk."
A curt jab, hardly a provocation.
But enough to twist the corners of Imagawa Yoshimoto's eyes.
He was the fifth son of his family; even born to the principal wife, as the third son, he had been sent to a temple at age five and lived as Sengaku Shōhō until returning to the clan. His ties to his loyal mentor Taigen Setsusai made her words not just provocation, but striking at his reverse scale.
"So you're Oda Nobunaga, that bratty girl."
Yet Imagawa Yoshimoto didn't lose his temper. He merely lifted the corners of his mouth, where blood had just stopped flowing, and scanned the tent.
Inside were Hirate Hikage—the Korean called Yaksha—the Oda clan's girl lord, and presumably a Mori girl with her guards...
It looked like a situation where even Imagawa Yoshimoto, standing alone, might surrender to survive—but he didn't see it that way at all.
And why would he?
"You think I'd leave the path to my tent open with no defenses?"
"What?"
Imagawa Yoshimoto was no fool.
"Kill them!"
—Zuwaaak!
—Chiiik!
At his shout, sharp blades from outside the tent sliced through the fabric walls that had separated inside from out.
At the same time, men who were clearly Imagawa's elite guards—not mere samurai—tore into the tent. Seeing this, Nobunaga, Yoshinari, and Il-yeong exchanged glances and thought the same.
'A trap?'
Clicking their tongues, they gripped their weapons tighter.
But it wasn't hopeless.
"Nothing changes."
"Yeah. Exactly."
Nobunaga brushed rain-matted hair from her cheek as she replied to Il-yeong, while Mori Yoshinari simply nodded and counted their numbers.
We weren't outnumbered.
Then it came down to the commanders' skill.
They'd stake their lives on victory.
No warrior here rejected the basic creed of these chaotic times.
No, not even Il-yeong.
"Uwaaaaa!"
"Kill them all!"
Oda and Imagawa elites—the finest samurai of both clans—clashed inside the tent torn open on all sides. And Imagawa Yoshimoto headed, naturally—
"First, I'll rip you apart, girl!"
"Who says?!"
straight for Oda Nobunaga, blade drawn.