Chapter 137
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 137
Chapter Title: Okehazama (8)
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“What bullshit is that?”
“Ho.”
Il-yeong blurted it out without managing to hold the words back inside, and in response, Imagawa Yoshimoto blinked once, letting out a low sigh with an expression that was hard to read.
But of course, that didn't mean his emotions had been shaken by Il-yeong's words or that he'd given up on the fight. It was closer to gauging Il-yeong's true intent in that fleeting moment.
'His eyes aren't wavering. His voice isn't trembling either...’
Any ruler surviving in these chaotic times had their own way of judging a person's true intentions from their appearance. Of course, the poorly cultivated or lowborn wouldn't know, but he, who bore the blood of the Imagawa clan, prided himself on being different from such half-baked sorts.
In his eyes, Il-yeong's reaction boiled down to two main possibilities.
—He truly had no idea.
—Or he knew but was pretending not to.
Though some might call those two options simplistic, Imagawa Yoshimoto settled on the former.
'And rightly so. If that were an act, it'd be impressive in its own right.'
His breathing, gaze, demeanor, and voice.
There wasn't a single flaw—Il-yeong looked exactly like a man who had genuinely spat out, “What bullshit is that?” But of course, that wasn't the full extent of his judgment.
However, as his excitement subsided, questions rapidly reared their heads in his mind, putting the brakes on his conclusion.
'A stealth attack before the assault begins. Why?'
If the attack had come after the assault started, he might have been a bit rattled.
That would make sense.
But Yunu hadn't waited at all—not even a hint of it.
No matter if he'd noticed her suspicious behavior, wouldn't that still be unnatural?
'No matter how I think about it, it doesn't add up.'
He knew better than anyone that human actions didn't always follow logic or the natural order, but his mind was already leaning one way.
…Intuition.
Yes, this was intuition.
His mind rang alarm bells that the true culprit lay elsewhere, and soon Imagawa Yoshimoto crooked the corner of his mouth, murmuring lowly.
“Matsudaira, is it.”
“What?”
Naturally, Il-yeong shot back, but all that returned was Imagawa's gruff chant.
“Nay. Too much pointless chatter. We're both caught our breath now, so shall we resume?”
Of course, his thoughts wouldn't sort themselves out so neatly. After all, the tangled mess in his head wasn't just about uncovering the culprit—it was about envisioning the future before and after.
'It's about time to tighten the noose.'
If favoring the Matsudaira clan—having early spotted the potential in that young fox cub and shown a touch of fondness—was a mistake, then it was a mistake.
'Or perhaps I've been getting ahead of myself lately.'
Either way, both were likely.
But it didn't worry him.
Because he himself had taken the young Matsudaira fox under his wing, confident he could tame it.
'Time to clean up one meddlesome clan.'
He gripped his ōdachi tighter and curled his lips into a smirk. The moment his task was set, there was no room for hesitation. Now, only one thing remained.
“Hmph!”
—Thud!
Imagawa Yoshimoto kicked off the muddy ground with a speed unbelievable for his massive frame, and at the same time, a sharp, ominous energy unlike that of a normal katana blade scattered toward Il-yeong.
“Kuh!”
Il-yeong naturally couldn't avoid feeling the overwhelming pressure this time, and he immediately raised his sword diagonally to meet the blade, flowing it off his shoulder.
—Kakang!
Water droplets trailed along the blood groove of the rain-slicked blade, and Il-yeong ignored his numb wrist, rising in one breath as his eyes flashed.
'Neck? Or shoulder?'
Like the samurai he'd just slain, should he thrust diagonally to take a life? Or pierce between the shoulder and neck?
His ingrained swordsmanship proposed countless trajectories, and in that split second, Il-yeong blinked several times, calculating and recalculating their paths and sword lines.
But in that moment.
“I can hear your brain grinding from here!”
“Eh?”
Imagawa Yoshimoto unhesitatingly released the ōdachi in his hand, simultaneously thrusting his hand to his waist, drawing his sword and slashing upward from below.
The problem was that Il-yeong had already leaned his upper body forward, diving into his guard, and Imagawa Yoshimoto smirked as he drew.
“I-Il-yeong!”
“Lord Hikage!”
Naturally, the sight looked just like Il-yeong's face being sliced vertically, leaving Nobunaga, Yoshinari, and even Akechi Mitsuhide—who had charged in to help the rampaging Itsuki—unable to hide their shock.
No, was it just them?
“...What!”
The samurai and ashigaru watching the clash between Il-yeong and Imagawa Yoshimoto from afar all betrayed their bewilderment, unable to believe Il-yeong had been done in.
It was only natural.
The scene threatened to shatter the reputation built by the man known as Hirate Hikage.
But then.
“Tch.”
Imagawa Yoshimoto's face, which had twisted into a satisfied grin as if he'd just beheaded Il-yeong, crumpled in disappointment, and Il-yeong's body launched into the air, tumbling through the mud several times.
—Splash!
As the armored giant was pushed back into the blood-and-corpse-churned mud, Oda Nobunaga and the Owari samurai nearly gasped in shock.
No, more precisely, they almost did.
“—Ha. Cough!”
All eyes near the command tent, locked in a brief lull, turned to Il-yeong at once, and they soon breathed relief or regret in their own ways as he slowly rose, wiping rain from his face.
As expected, Imagawa Yoshimoto's face soured with disappointment, and he soon smacked his lips.
“Ho. Quite nimble. The talk of you being Oda's fool's concubine wasn't wrong after all.”
At his words, Il-yeong raised a hand to wipe the mud from his plastered face, then suddenly realized something was missing from his lower face, feeling an unusual heat on his lips and cheek as he touched it.
“Heh.”
And soon he understood.
The yasha-motif mengu—his face guard—was shattered, and a long gash, unclear if from the sword or the mask cracking, ran from his lips across his jaw and cheek.
“Ptoo.”
He spat out saliva thick with metallic blood and the foul stench of mud, then slowly rose.
And there was no need to explain that those who saw Il-yeong's wound then turned pale as ghosts.
Shwaaa—.
The sky remained gray-tinted, pouring down like water from a punctured bucket.
And in that moment, Il-yeong briefly traced the wound on his face with a finger, then muttered.
“Ha, fuck.”
“What was that?”
Imagawa Yoshimoto had no choice but to ask. It was only natural.
“What? This fucking asshole. Motherfucker.”
After all, the words spilling from Il-yeong's mouth were none other than modern Korean.
His face had been slashed.
Of course, from a modern person's view, it was terrifying territory—strong-arm robbery territory you rarely saw—but it hit Il-yeong differently.
He could shrug off body scars so far.
But when death loomed right before his eyes, even he couldn't help but lose it like any man.
“Flour-smeared half-assed face bastard, where do you get off?”
Il-yeong snarled it with a twisted scowl, but Imagawa Yoshimoto and the others couldn't fully understand.
“What’s that? Cursing in Choson tongue just 'cause you're a Choson dog?”
Of course, they could roughly guess it was Choson-style cursing.
But Il-yeong didn't respond, instead staring at his reflection in a relatively clean puddle and clicking his tongue.
“...Infection'll set in in a heartbeat.”
Having rolled in blood and mud, the dirt on his hair or cheek might seep into the wound. So he ignored whatever Imagawa Yoshimoto was saying and lifted his head.
Shwaaa—.
The silver lining was the rain.
Pollution was low in this era, so rainwater was drinkable—better than letting filthy mud fester the wound.
Il-yeong calmly wiped his face.
And naturally, that was more than enough to irk Imagawa Yoshimoto.
—Click.
So he signaled a nearby samurai who had been hesitating. The meaning was clear, and the samurai swung at Il-yeong without hesitation.
“Hup!”
Was there an easier target than cleaving an enemy openly washing his face while gazing at the sky?
That was the common thought of all samurai.
“Lord Hirate!”
So it wasn't strange for the Oda clan's samurai to call out to Il-yeong in urgency.
But right then.
“Tch.”
“Gahk!”
Il-yeong dodged the incoming sword, then plunged a hidden dagger from his bosom straight into the gap in the samurai's armor.
With a squelch, the samurai let out a final gurgle and collapsed, and Il-yeong lightly shook the blood from his hand before staring straight at Imagawa Yoshimoto and chanting.
“Impatient one. Suicidal.”
And this time, his words were in flawless Japanese.