Chapter 8: "Honor the Lord, Expel the Traitors — The Return of True Rule"
The full moon hung high, casting its pale light over the Land of Fields. Beneath the gaze of Princess Kaguya's silent face, a grand banquet was in full swing inside the luxurious Murata estate — the most opulent residence in the entire country.
Soft music drifted between polished screens. Young women in modern, lighter-cut kimonos glided through the hall, refilling cups and offering smiles that made the air sweet with indulgence.
Laughter echoed — the rich, unrestrained laughter of men too full of wine and comfort to remember the world beyond their walls.
"Kitamura-dono," Murata said, raising his sake cup, his flushed face shining with satisfaction, "we've truly sacrificed ourselves for the prosperity of the Land of Fields, haven't we?"
His tone was playful, but the implication was heavy with unspoken greed.
Kitamura, ever the courtly actor, chuckled and lowered his own cup slightly — a show of deference that cost him nothing. The two men clinked their cups and drank deeply. Wiping the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief, Kitamura smiled and stroked his beard.
"Murata-dono, you speak too modestly. As nobles of the Land of Fields, it is our duty to toil for its glory. A little effort on our part — is that not our noble burden?"
He leaned closer, voice dropping with feigned gravity.
"Besides, with the former daimyō deceased and the young lord newly enthroned, this is the time for men like us to step forward. Who else but we, the pillars of the realm, can uphold the country's weight?"
The gathered lords burst into laughter, raising their cups in agreement.
"Yes, yes! If we nobles don't make a few sacrifices, who will?" someone quipped.
Their laughter was thick with irony — the kind that only the powerful could afford.
"Come now, drink!" Murata said grandly, gesturing to the servants.
Cups clinked again. The nobles toasted each other with practiced elegance, their eyes half-lidded in drunken pleasure as dancers swayed under the lantern light.
Beyond the estate walls, the rest of the world — the hungry villages, the overtaxed peasants — did not exist for them.
If the daimyō's so-called plan to found a shinobi village meant a little more hardship for the common folk, then so be it.
Was that not how every nation was built?
A little pain for the many, a little profit for the few.
That, to them, was simply natural law.
---
But the illusion of peace shattered when the rhythmic tapping of sandals echoed through the corridor.
A servant, pale and breathless, stumbled into the banquet hall. He bowed low beside Murata and whispered urgently in his ear.
Murata's smile faltered. His thick brows drew together in irritation.
"What is this nonsense?" he barked. "A few dead peasants — is that all? Since when has that been worth interrupting a noble's supper?"
"Murata-dono," the servant stammered, "this time… it's different."
The man hesitated, choosing his words carefully. He had seen such deaths before — tax seasons always brought broken families, suicides, the selling of children. None of that had ever troubled his master.
But this time, something had gone wrong.
Some peasants had tried to sell their grain, but the merchants — allies of the noble clans — had forced the prices so low that the farmers had protested. The guards beat several of them to death in public.
And now, instead of fear, there was outrage.
The peasants were organizing, shouting that they would take their grievances straight to the daimyō himself.
"What?"
Murata froze mid-sip. He stroked his moustache slowly, as though the idea itself were offensive.
"Those filthy peasants actually think they can petition the daimyō?" He sneered. "Do they imagine that boy is their savior?"
Kitamura gave a soft, amused chuckle.
"It's the rumors," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Ever since our little daimyō took the throne, he's had a habit of wandering among the people in disguise. Word spread that he's a 'lord who loves his people like his own children.'"
He took a leisurely sip of wine.
"So now these fools actually believe he'll stand up for them. It's laughable."
Murata snorted, his irritation dissolving into amusement.
"Hmph. The peasants' dream of a merciful lord — it suits them, doesn't it? A bedtime story for the stupid and the hungry."
"They want to believe it," Kitamura said, smirking. "They crave that kind of lie."
"Oh, that rumor."
Realization dawned across Murata's face. He had heard it too — the whisper spreading through towns and fields alike:
That Oda Nobunaga was a daimyō unlike any other.
That he would rather bleed for his people than bleed them dry.
That under his rule, even peasants could lift their heads without fear.
A fantasy, he thought. An insult to the intelligence of every noble in the land.
But if that fantasy reached Nobunaga's ears — if the boy actually believed it — it could complicate everything.
Murata's expression darkened, and a plan began to form behind his eyes.
Perhaps, he thought, this rumor could be turned to his advantage.
If the people were marching to the daimyō to beg for justice, then perhaps it was time to "protect" the lord — by isolating him.
And while they did, perhaps they could quietly kill two birds with one stone:
smother the peasant rebellion and convince the daimyō to abandon this foolish plan for Otogakure.
After all, once the money was taken and the village scrapped…
who would dare call it anything but peace?
"Surround the daimyo's manor with samurai," Kitamura proposed. "Make sure those peasants can't get to him."
"Then we'll send troops to quell the rioters. If samurai can't handle it, we'll hire ninja."
Kitamura made a small coin-gesture toward Murata — the unspoken meaning clear: there was money to be made in suppression. Murata saw the opportunity to fatten his purse and agreed. Cut off the people from the lord, gather the taxes, and then claim the whole affair justified abandoning the village plan — everyone in the mansions would be content.
So the order went out: crush the troublemakers. For the nobles, the matter was closed; they would return to their pleasures and forget the peasants' pleas. Once Murata's command reached officials across the land, those who had never sat among commoners found every absurd pretext to coerce and deceive them. The magistrates raised their blades at the protesting villagers: kill the ringleaders, they argued, and the rest would fall into obedient silence. Why hesitate? Kill them all and the land will be "peaceful" at last.
What those bureaucrats and great families did not realize was that their every move was being watched. Nobunaga, acting as daimyō, had quietly rallied loyal shinobi from Harada and other clans, and honorable samurai who still remembered their oaths. They waited for the right moment.
As the officials swung their blades and popular anger peaked, Nobunaga gave a single, decisive order. The agents embedded among the crowds — the ninja and samurai who served him in secret — rose up and ignited a movement that swept across the Land of Fields: "Honor the Lord, Purge the Traitors, Restore True Rule."
With Murata and his allies having sealed off the daimyo's residence, Nobunaga's secret forces had reason and opportunity to strike. In a tax office where magistrates had once lorded it over peasants, the scene reversed. Farmers armed with rakes, hoes, and sickles surged in; the officials' hauteur dissolved under the weight of the people's fury. A corrupt bureaucrat, prostrate on the floor and humiliated, cried out:
"This was done at the daimyo's order! Oppose me and you oppose the lord!"
"Rubbish!" the crowd roared back. "Lord Nobunaga would never give such an order!"
"We know what you've done — you imprisoned the daimyo and ruled in his name to do evil!"
"Now we will revere our lord and purge the corrupt! Return the realm to true governance!" they shouted.
"Let the lord we truly swear to lead the Land of Fields!"
"With Nobunaga at the helm, our country will be better!"
They raised their farm tools and struck down the official. From their hearts rose a fierce belief in the rumor that had spread through the countryside — and with that belief came a fierce, genuine loyalty. The boy daimyō, once a whisper, had become the embodiment of hope, and in that hope the people poured out their allegiance.