Chapter 66
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: penny
Chapter: 66
Chapter Title: The Woman Called a Traitor (1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
War wasn't something you could ignite just because you felt like it. There were countless prerequisites that had to be met first.
The quantity and quality of troops.
Funds and food supplies.
And furthermore, public sentiment and strategy.
War demanded agonizing over many things and paying a heavy price. No one in this era was ignorant of the dire consequences that came from launching a war hastily.
Thus, Oda Nobunaga and Oda Nobuyuki each threw everything they had into preparing for the coming war alongside their retainers.
In line with Il-yeong and Hirate Masahide's counsel, the path Oda Nobunaga chose boiled down to two main thrusts.
—Qualitative improvement of the ashigaru.
—Importing greater numbers of matchlock rifles.
Thanks to backing from the Ikoma trading company, a substantial stock of matchlock rifles was already secured. This was a boon from clearing the trading routes back when Saito Dosan still ruled Mino.
That left enhancing the ashigaru's quality.
The task fell to none other than Il-yeong and Yoshinari.
Of course, Il-yeong wasn't drilling them in swordplay or spearmanship. Yoshinari outshone him there by far.
"Everyone, focus up."
Nobunaga wouldn't entrust such a vital role to someone lacking skill just because she doted on him. Il-yeong's charge was one thing alone.
—Swish.
Il-yeong shook the small paper pouch gripped in his hand.
"Gunpowder pouch. Easy to carry around."
Typically, powder came in gourds, but this design boosted portability. Not his invention, of course—countless minds across history had puzzled it out.
'No helping it.'
A twinge of guilt pricked him for claiming another's feat, but survival left no room for qualms.
—Owari was a land battered by endless tempests.
Enemies lurked on every side, and even the scraps of battles he recalled numbered plenty.
Moreover, Il-yeong wanted no drawn-out war. Sympathy tugged at him toward Shibata Katsuie and Oda Nobuyuki—not as objects of affection, but as fellow humans.
"Ah."
Snapping back, he realized he'd zoned out. He bit the pouch's end, tore it with his teeth, and poured powder down the muzzle. Then the bullet, then lit the fuse.
"Now, shouldering like this..."
Military vet and range rat by instinct, he shouldered and sighted the target. Pulled the trigger—bang—bullet away.
The mangled shot thunked home in the target.
Early matchlocks being what they were, precision inside the ring left room for improvement, but a hit was a hit worth celebrating.
Meanwhile, Nobunaga watched with utter bafflement.
"Heh, heard Koreans go mad for bows, but..."
Such a saying existed.
Koreans and bows, Chinese and spears, Japanese and swords.
But a ranged weapon that wasn't a bow?
Nobunaga just stared at Il-yeong, incredulous.
Il-yeong had retorts aplenty.
For starters, any Korean guy worth his salt aced shooting in mandatory service—and his hobby was the range. Need more?
He'd once dreamed of America. Stuck in a gun-banned homeland, he'd shelled out fortunes to shoot.
Glancing around mid-thought, he caught the matchlock squad gaping. Unfamiliar territory for them.
Load to fire, flawless.
'Sure, secret practice helped...'
But self-improvement, right?
Their faces stirred a line he'd always itched to drop. Lip quirking, rifle slung over shoulder:
"See? Piece of cake."
Uncle Rice.
Your one-liners are pure gold.
He shot Nobunaga a look. But then—
—My lord!
A samurai burst into the training ground, whispering urgently in Nobunaga's ear. She scowled.
"What? Visitor?"
Il-yeong's gut twinged; he set the rifle down. Timing too perfect.
'No way... too soon?'
Could be nothing. If his hunch held, she'd hit another house first, not Oda.
Right then.
Nobunaga met his gaze.
"Il-yeong. You wouldn't happen to..."
Not exactly secret intel. Uncommon name, worth checking with him.
Her Nobunaga-adapted garb fluttered in the breeze, lips parted. The name spilled out:
"Know an Akechi Mitsuhide?"
All too familiar.
"...Yes."
Il-yeong nodded on reflex.
Akechi Mitsuhide. Saito retainer in Mino originally, clan butchered by Saito Yoshitatsu, wandered into Oda Nobunaga's fold as sworn loyalist.
...And.
'The one who torches Oda Nobunaga at Honnoji.'
His eyes locked on Nobunaga.
Face shifting to that icy mask from before, he said:
"Shall we, my lord?"
Naturally.
The shadowing ninjas spotted his look and shuddered.
They alone clocked it.
The yaksha's eyes might crack open again.
*
Tailing Nobunaga to the Tenshukaku entrance, eyes fell on a woman ringed by samurai, tiny hand clasped in hers.
Pinkish hair streaked silver caught the eye.
Black kasaya shrouded her lower face, screaming beauty at a glance.
Nobunaga's stride halted before her. The girl shrank back.
"So. You're..."
Nobunaga spoke.
Hand reached, snagged the kasaya's hem, yanked it down.
"Yes, my lord."
Pink tresses cascaded over shoulder and throat. Fangs peeked from smiling lips; faint dark circles stood out.
"Mitsuhide of the Akechi clan."
Nobunaga's brow creased faintly. Prettier than bargained for. Unbidden glance at Il-yeong.
But Mitsuhide's eyes quivered. Shifted gaze—to Il-yeong, no less.
Brow furrowed.
Disgust welled; idly pondered slaying him, gilding the skull for a chalice—
Then she felt it.
The charged air between them.
'This...'
Cold sweat beaded Nobunaga's back. Finally clocked it: Il-yeong's face—so tender with her, Yoshinari, the rest—
Now chill and pitiless.
Blank, like mulling how best to chew her to bits.
Glanced back at Mitsuhide. Eyes not serene, but laced with feeling.
—Fear. And doubt.
Why does that man stare so? Nobunaga shifted instinctively, blocking his line of sight.
—Whoa.
Pent breath burst free.
Il-yeong caught his slip late but held his mask.
Air around matched Nobunaga's tension.
Itsuki gulped at Il-yeong's darkening vibe; Yoshinari swallowed questions, riding the mood.
"My lord."
Il-yeong's lips twitched.
"Might I have a moment alone with Lady Akechi?"
He fixed her with his iciest glare yet—like facing a foe. Thus.
"...Granted."
Nobunaga had no choice but half-yield. Il-yeong led Mitsuhide to the reception hall.
Then, to the Hirate samurai trailing:
"Clear the area. Even if..."
—Screams ring out.
Itsuki stiffened. Samurai recalled that rainy wild night, chorused assent.
Slide—door shut.
Il-yeong wordlessly gestured to a cushion. Clueless, she sat trembling.
As toes curled upon settling—
Il-yeong peered into her silver-pink eyes.
"Why skip Asakura?"
Mitsuhide's pupils—
"H-How do you..."
—Exploded wide.