Chapter 46
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: penny
Chapter: 46
Chapter Title: He Must Live
-----------------------------------------------------------------
That man must pray to live.
Young master.
That single word made Nobunaga's face—and Hirate Masahide's—freeze solid.
In that instant, the absolute worst scenario had flashed through both their minds. But didn't someone once say it?
...Pessimistic premonitions always hit the mark.
"The young master suddenly led the clan's warriors toward the Mino border!"
The samurai bowed his head low—deep—and continued. At the same moment, Nobunaga bellowed as if to shake the entire hall loose.
"Gather the troops now!"
And before even ten minutes had passed.
A line of mounted samurai, over a hundred strong, poured out of Kiyosu Castle in unison and thundered across the plains.
Leading them, as a matter of course, was Nobunaga.
Her short black hair whipped wildly in the wind.
Those golden eyes, forever haunted by madness and a peculiar bitterness, shook aimlessly now. The hand clutching the reins trembled like a leaf in a storm.
Her heart pounded fiercely.
Her spine prickled with electricity. Moonlight flooded the world, yet her vision was lost in suffocating darkness.
'No. No.'
His arm hadn't healed yet.
Word was, he hadn't even finished the herbal tonic.
Heard he'd been having nightmares.
Heard he'd groaned through the night, so his adopted sister Uemon had changed his cold compresses.
That's why she'd meant to give him a talisman to chase away the bad dreams.
Her chest kept aching sharply.
She'd thought there was no way it could happen. Yet at the same time, she'd imagined the very worst.
Was it because she'd finally admitted—somewhat—her feelings for Il-yeong? Or just selfish reluctance to lose a capable retainer?
She didn't know.
There was no way to know.
The only fact burned into her mind was this:
Il-yeong had gone to a place that might be a deathtrap. And it might already be too late.
So she rode.
She tore across the plains, leaping small rivers in her path without a second thought.
How long had she ridden like that?
"Daimyo, there...!"
A shout from behind snapped her out of her blank stare ahead. Her vision cleared in an instant.
"...Ah."
She breathed a sigh thick with relief.
Far off in the distance.
He was coming down the slope.
As the rain let up, the fog began to thin as well.
They felt their body heat leaching away through their sodden clothes as they descended the mountain, following a path heavy with the stench of blood.
There was no helping it.
They weren't forging a new trail—they were tracing the one already carved by Il-yeong and the Hirate family's samurai.
"......"
The lead samurai shoved aside corpses and entrails as they appeared, but some traces couldn't be fully erased.
Like chunks of organs strewn across the ground, or blood caked thick on leaves and branches.
Meanwhile, Itsuki could only dart his eyes around in the oppressively grim mood.
Yoshinari and the other women—whether from shock or some other reason—simply stared blankly at Il-yeong's back ahead, leaning on Itsuki for support.
"Move it, you vermin."
"Guh!"
Behind them, disarmed low-rank samurai were herded roughly under the watchful eyes of Hirate family warriors.
But Itsuki had no attention to spare for them. Because...
"...Are you alright, young master?"
Il-yeong's wounds were far too deep. Far too many.
His arm hadn't even healed yet, and he'd pushed himself anyway—now he was half a corpse.
Truth be told, when Itsuki had seen him reunite with Yoshinari, he'd already been at his limit.
How desperate must he have been to let a low-rank samurai gut him like that? Yet Il-yeong trudged on in silence, without a word.
So Itsuki could only focus on supporting him and getting down the mountain as fast as possible.
How long had they walked?
"...Haa, haa."
Even the stoic Il-yeong was panting raggedly from exhaustion when the mountain's base finally came into view.
"We're almost there, young master. Just a little further..."
In that instant, Itsuki's words died in his throat.
The weight on his shoulder vanished. Il-yeong's body tilted, plummeting toward the ground.
But then.
The sound of footsteps rushing from behind—and Il-yeong's falling form halted.
So Il-yeong slowly turned his head, tracing the hand steadying him up to her face.
"...Yoshinari."
His voice cracked, flecked with blood as he called her name. Yoshinari bit her lip—hard.
Complex emotions swirled in her ash-gray eyes.
Regret? Remorse? Resentment? Guilt? Il-yeong couldn't tell.
She simply took position on his other side, opposite Itsuki, sharing the burden as they pressed on.
They started walking again.
One step. One step.
Each footfall on the earth grew heavier—whether from water or blood, he couldn't say.
His vision blurred.
Il-yeong managed a bitter smile as even the pain faded into haze.
'...Am I dying?'
Looking back, it was a miracle he'd lasted months in this world. A place where death was anything but special.
They'd reached the base where the horses had been dismounted.
Horses grazed on wet grass not far off, and samurai bolted toward them to fetch mounts for Il-yeong.
But then.
—Clop, clop!
A rhythm of hoofbeats echoed across the ground. Hands reaching for reins froze.
They looked up. Through the thinning fog afar, a group approached. The samurai drew swords in haste.
Under normal circumstances, they wouldn't tense at troops from the Owari direction. But fresh from dancing on death's edge, caution was inevitable.
But only for a moment.
"It's the Daimyo—!"
One samurai spotted the face of Nobunaga charging at the fore and shouted. Swords vanished back into sheaths as if they'd never been drawn.
And just as the last blade slid home.
Nobunaga reined in first, leaped from her horse, and sprinted desperately across the plain.
"Daimyo!"
Her retainers dismounted in a flash and chased after her frantic form.
The commotion was enough to lift the head of Il-yeong, whose mind was fogging over.
His trembling chin, dipping low, snapped up at the cry of "Daimyo." Moments later, Nobunaga reached him. She gazed down with eyes quivering endlessly.
"Ah, aaah..."
He didn't look right at a glance.
His face was ghostly white from massive blood loss. His previously injured arm—and now his abdomen, wrapped in hasty rags to stem what had to be grievous wounds.
Even a fool could see it.
He teetered on the edge of life and death.
"Il, Il-yeong."
No thought of "Hikage." Just Il-yeong—that Joseon name.
She called his name and reached out, cupping his deathly pale cheeks. The chill touch—so cold it trembled—startled her.
"...Daimyo."
Suddenly, the face of the ninja who'd died before her overlapped with his. She bellowed as if to shatter the plains.
"Doctor! Get a doctor...!"
But there was no doctor to be had.
One of the samurai following her stepped forward, face etched with worry.
"Daimyo. We should hurry him to Nagoya first..."
Without treatment, he'd surely die.
His advice was pure common sense.
Nobunaga realized it belatedly and moved to order him taken to a physician. But in that instant.
"Cough...!"
Il-yeong hacked up blood—straight into Nobunaga's embrace. A gory splatter soaked the bandages over her chest.
"Il-yeong!"
Yoshinari cried out urgently from the side. Itsuki blanched, staring at Nobunaga.
She knew there was no more time to waste. Biting her lip—hard—she shouted.
"Get him to Nagoya now and treat him!"
"Yes!"
A horse was no gentle litter for a patient, but there was no choice. Hirate samurai and Itsuki manhandled Il-yeong onto a mount and spurred away without even saluting Nobunaga.
—Hyah!
The Hirate warriors fled the plain in desperate haste. All that remained: Nobunaga's hundred-odd samurai, the women, and the traitor ronin.
Yoshinari's gaze chased Il-yeong's vanishing back. But then.
Slap—!
Nobunaga's palm cracked across Yoshinari's cheek.
Her head snapped to the side. Her pale skin flushed red in the chill air. Yet Nobunaga regarded her with icy composure.
"Explain yourself, Yoshinari."
"...Yes."
With downcast eyes, she recounted it all. Hideyoshi's betrayal. Days of pursuit. Saved at last by Il-yeong—but at this cost.
Nobunaga's gaze shifted to the dragged low-rank samurai.
In a flash, she snatched a sword from a retainer behind her and advanced slowly.
"Wh-what."
The traitors shuddered at her savage aura. Soon, a glint sliced the air.
Slice. Thud.
A severed head rolled across the dirt.
With a voice colder than any before, Nobunaga addressed the remaining ronin.
"That man must pray to live."
Or else.
"You'll have to prepare for death yourselves."
One samurai who'd overheard raged out.
"P-please, spare us...!"
"Spare you?"
Her lips curled in a venomous sneer.
You vermin dare beg like that?
Her grip tightened on the hilt. She strode forward and cleaved another neck.
Slice. Thud.
Another lump of meat joined the pile on the plain. To the terrified, eyes-squeezed-shut wretches, she said:
"Look forward to it. I'll make sure that even if you live, it won't feel like living."