Chapter 45
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 45
Chapter Title: Fuck with Il-yeong and You're Fucked
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Clutching the sword in his hand tightly, he advanced slowly.
The relentless patter of rain battered his ears, and every step forward sank into the thick mud, weighing him down unbearably.
The wakizashi was still half-buried in his gut, swinging loosely, while his body—having raced on horseback, slain dozens, and climbed the mountain—screamed as if it might tear apart at any moment.
With chilling killing intent in his eyes, he focused his blurry vision and thought.
…Should’ve killed him.
The first time he’d laid eyes on Hideyoshi, Il-yeong’s mind had been a whirlwind. He’d debated drawing his sword right then, thinking of the fool who’d ignite the future, only to abandon the idea time and again.
It was confusing.
Being dropped into a world where daimyos’ genders were flipped was bewildering enough, and this place followed similar currents yet diverged in strangely numerous ways.
So he’d let him live.
Even when he showed inexplicable hostility.
He’d told himself it wasn’t time yet, mumbling about butterfly effects in history, and stayed his hand.
It was carelessness. Complicity.
He’d thought that if he took Hideyoshi’s role himself, the man would naturally fade into the annals of history.
But what was this?
In Il-yeong’s eyes, he wasn’t just some ragged low-rank samurai as others described. He was a warrior brimming with ambition, not yet devoured by his twisted hunger.
Stupid.
He raised his faintly trembling left arm, slicking back the rain-soaked bangs obscuring his vision. The thick fog had cleared, revealing Hideyoshi’s face in full.
Il-yeong peeled his blood-sticky lips apart and spoke in a cracked voice.
“…I won’t ask why you betrayed us.”
Probably, you…
If you’re the Hideyoshi I knew—
You treated today as a sketch for the grand ambitions you’d one day chase, dreaming of the future you’d paint yourself.
Whether for good or ill.
In the end, he was a figure who’d cap off an era in history.
Grip—.
Il-yeong squeezed the hilt so hard it seemed the blade might shatter, then murmured the man’s name lowly.
“Hideyoshi. Toyotomi Hideyoshi.”
Today.
I’ll cut you down.
And at last.
Il-yeong’s steps turned to a sprint, charging toward Hideyoshi.
Thud-thud-thud—!
Mud splashed from the churned earth.
In the blink of an eye, the two samurai’s blades clashed in midair, a sharp metallic ring echoing through the eerie forest.
Claaang—!
For an instant, his fingertips numbed.
At the same time, Hideyoshi flashed a sinister grin and sneered.
“With a blade in your belly, I’ll graciously take your head. Heh heh.”
His jab at seppuku made Itsuki and the other samurai—and even the women—bite their lips in fury.
But Il-yeong answered not with words. He slid his blade along Hideyoshi’s, slicing deep into the back of his hand.
“Guh!”
Hideyoshi yanked his sword back and lashed a kick at Il-yeong’s abdomen. Il-yeong dodged by a hair’s breadth and thrust again.
Clang— and the two parted.
“Kuh-hack!”
Il-yeong coughed dryly.
Blood trickled from his lips, and Hideyoshi, breathing raggedly, charged once more.
Sometimes they aimed for heads.
Hands reached to drive the wakizashi deeper into Il-yeong’s gut; Hideyoshi’s throat nicked, blood welling.
After several exchanges of offense and defense.
Hideyoshi clutched his trembling arm from the relentless strikes, feeling his slick palm.
Realizing it torn open, he could only stare at Il-yeong with dawning dread.
“…Don’t you ever tire?”
Dozens of minor cuts marred his body already.
And every swing of that wakizashi left dangling in his belly made Hideyoshi wince as if it hurt him more.
By his knowledge, Il-yeong had suffered a grave arm wound in the last battle and was recovering. Who’d believe that now?
“…Ah.”
Only then did Il-yeong belatedly notice the sword still in his gut and reached to pull it. But Hideyoshi wasn’t about to wait.
“Hup!”
Watching Hideyoshi, Il-yeong thought.
He’d crossed the line.
Killing nameless warriors and fleeing to the Saito clan’s Mino might’ve given pause, but not this rage.
But Hideyoshi’s sin was singular.
“Mori Yoshinari is my woman.”
The future was unknown, but if asked who he loved right now, she came first.
Thus, as Hideyoshi closed to arm’s length, Il-yeong yanked the dangling wakizashi from his gut.
“Baek Il-yeeeoong!”
And as Hideyoshi roared, swinging for his neck—
Claaang!
Il-yeong drew the sword lodged at an angle nearby, deflected the strike, and angled the Onimaru Kunitsuna in his right hand to pierce straight through Hideyoshi’s heart.
Gurgle—!
Like meat skewered on a spit, Hideyoshi impaled himself on Il-yeong’s blade in full charge. Holding him briefly as if in an embrace, Il-yeong whispered low amid his fading breaths.
“You were the man who’d unify the realm.”
“...What?”
“And lost it all to greed and circumstance. Yeah…”
Crunch.
Veins bulged on Il-yeong’s sword hand, and with a venomous smile, he slowly twisted the blade, feeling the heart’s dying throbs.
“Guhhhh…!”
“Just like today.”
And soon.
As Hideyoshi’s body sagged with a wet slump—.
Il-yeong withdrew the sword without hesitation and slammed him into the mud. Muddy water mixed with worms filled the traitor’s gaping mouth, but no one saw.
They only watched Il-yeong.
Clad in black robes fouled by blood, rain, and dirt, he wiped the splattered blood from his face with rainwater and spoke to those staring blankly.
“I’ll give you two choices.”
It wasn’t a proposal or declaration.
Just an order.
“Seppuku.”
In that instant, a cold, blade-like smile sliced through his crooked grin, cutting across the traitors’ faces.
“Or I kill everyone tied to you and leave you to survive alone.”
I’ll unleash ninjas.
Hirate family samurai.
Slay your closest traitor friends first, force the samurai to seppuku.
Hunt your families, exterminate clans, burn the homes of your wronged wives.
Then find you alone, sever limbs, rip out your tongue, and flay you slowly.
“I’ll make you neither live nor die, so you regret forever daring to betray the Daimyo, touching my woman, and following the wrong man—you vermin.”
No one answered.
Itsuki and the Hirate samurai gripped their swords, overwhelmed by Il-yeong’s presence. Yoshinari stared blankly at his back, seeing this side of him for the first time.
Regardless.
Il-yeong simply severed the faintly gasping Hideyoshi’s neck through his blurring vision.
Thud—.
The head rose briefly to shoulder height before crashing to the ground, and Il-yeong glanced back, murmuring lowly.
“Still undecided?”
Realizing it was their last chance.
The samurai crumpled to their knees, closing their eyes blankly.
*
The unseasonal winter rain dragged on for days before tapering off at last. Servants split the dampened firewood and replaced it with fresh logs, while samurai buttoned their collars against the chill and sniffed.
Dawn arrived under a flood of moonlight.
Nobunaga perched on the windowsill of Kiyosu Castle’s highest floor, tilting her sake cup slowly and murmuring.
“Nice.”
The chirping crickets and frosty air that fogged her breath paired perfectly with the warming sake.
Refilling her cup, she addressed Hirate Masahide seated before her.
“Isn’t it, Uncle?”
Hirate, tilting a steaming teacup instead of sake, replied in a stern yet affectionate baritone.
“Ease up on the drink. It’s no good for your health—why indulge so?”
It sounded like nagging on the surface.
But Nobunaga wasn’t so young as to miss the love in his counsel.
Thus, she chuckled, sake-scent wafting, about to retort.
Yeah, she meant to.
Bam—!
If not for the samurai bursting through the door, shouting urgently.
“L-Lord!”
Hirate set down his cup.
And Nobunaga’s face shifted to her signature arrogance laced with madness.
“What is it.”
“W-Well.”
Realizing his blunder at her demeanor, he faltered, then bowed late and spoke.
“A man claiming to be a ninja insists on seeing you, Lord. But his condition’s dire—he refuses treatment, demanding you.”
“...Where?”
“The courtyard…”
She didn’t wait for him to finish.
And neither did Hirate Masahide.
Their eyes met midair.
‘Lord, it seems.’
‘Yes.’
No words exchanged, but years together let them read each other’s minds.
Something had gone wrong in Mino.
Thud-thud!
They bolted past the samurai to the courtyard. Dignity be damned—the ninja’s “dire state” spurred them on.
Arriving, they furrowed brows at the sight.
“...Hah.”
Unlike the silent Hirate, Nobunaga bit her lip, glaring at the half-collapsed ninja clinging to consciousness with fury and irritation.
Arrows riddled his back beyond counting.
His right wrist—sword hand—was severed, crudely bandaged with torn cloth. Cuts, gashes, exposed bone everywhere.
On death’s door.
Even battle-hardened samurai averted eyes.
But not her.
“L-Lord!”
Barefoot, she strode into the courtyard. A servant cried from behind, but she approached without pause and spoke lowly.
“Your name.”
“L-Lord… Hack!”
Spotting her late, the ninja lifted his head. Blood pooled in his left eye—vision likely gone.
“Glad… not… late… good.”
Yet the nameless ninja smiled in relief. Whether from completing his mission before death or his life mattering, who knew.
“Ambushed… and… betrayal…”
His body tilted.
But Nobunaga gripped his bloodied frame firmly. He steadied against her hand, gasping out the rest.
“Hide…yoshi… betrayed. Jonin… sent us… to Kiyosu… and Nagoya…”
Rambling nonsense.
But listening intently, she pieced it together soon enough.
—Ambushed. Ronin betrayed us mid-pursuit; Jonin sent us to Kiyosu and Nagoya for aid.
But then.
“Your name.”
Nobunaga asked again of the one who’d fulfilled his duty. The ninja slowly raised his head, etching her face in his eyes, mumbling through unmoving lips.
“Kura… Kiuchi… Kura.”
“Kiuchi Kura.”
Memorizing it, she released her grip. And simultaneously—
Thud— the ninja—no, Kiuchi Kura—slumped forward on his knees, head dropping. Samurai saluted the low-rank ninja as one.
His loyalty to the end deserved the title of loyal retainer.
Meanwhile, Nobunaga etched Kura’s name in her heart and turned a coldly hardened face to Hirate Masahide.
“Uncle.”
“Yes, Lord.”
He’d mentioned sending to Kiyosu and Nagoya—destinations clear.
‘Kiyosu to me, Nagoya to Uncle.’
One reached Kiyosu. Nagoya must be checked too. At her glance, Hirate summoned a retainer to send word to his Nagoya estate.
But then.
Whinny—!
A frantic horse halted nearby her quarters. A disheveled samurai rushed in.
“Family head!”
Hirate’s retainer. Spotting him over the threshold, he dropped to one knee and cried.
“The young master…!”