The apartment smelled of stale coffee and old paper. Elias Voss sat at his desk in the dim cone of light from a single lamp, the rest of the small Houston unit swallowed by late-night shadow. Outside, the distant hum of traffic on I-10 filtered through the thin walls, but inside it was quiet except for the occasional tick of the cheap wall clock and the soft rustle of pages as he turned them.
He was eighteen, unremarkable in most ways—average height, average build, the kind of face that didn't linger in memory. His chestnut hair was perpetually tousled, falling over gray eyes that rarely blinked when he was focused. Wire-rimmed glasses sat low on his nose as he leaned forward, tracing a finger along a faded map in one of his many books on the Sengoku period. The volume was dog-eared, margins filled with his precise notes: troop movements, rice yields, betrayal dates. Next to it lay a worn Japanese-English dictionary and a notebook filled with handwritten vocabulary—military terms, era-specific phrases, names of daimyo and battles.
Elias had taught himself the basics of Japanese over years of obsession. Not fluency—conversation would be clumsy—but enough to read historical texts in the original, decipher old scrolls online, and understand spoken period dramas without subtitles. He'd started with modern Japanese apps, then shifted to classical forms: honorifics, archaic verbs, the clipped speech of samurai chronicles. He could parse sentences slowly, catch key words in context. Names like Oda Nobunaga, Imagawa Yoshimoto, and battles like Okehazama rolled off his tongue with decent pronunciation. It wasn't perfect—his accent was American-thick, grammar shaky—but it was functional. A tool, like his HEMA swordsmanship.
He paused on a page describing the lead-up to Okehazama. *If I were there,* he thought, the idea familiar and half-serious, *I'd play it differently. Let Nobunaga bleed his rivals first, then move in when he overextends. Secure trade early—saltpeter for gunpowder, silk for coin. Minimize casualties; dead soldiers don't pay taxes. Build slow, steady. Wealth compounds.*
He rubbed his eyes, glancing at the clock: 2:17 AM. Another all-nighter. Tomorrow he had a warehouse shift, stacking boxes for minimum wage. The thought settled like lead in his gut. Predictable, safe, but stagnant.
A low crackle snapped his attention back. The lamp flickered. Elias frowned, reaching for the switch. The air felt suddenly charged, like the moment before a Texas thunderstorm. Pages fluttered though there was no draft. Then the center of the room warped—colors bleeding together into a swirling disk of violet and blue, edges crackling with white light. The hum grew to a roar, wind whipping papers into a cyclone around him.
He stood, chair clattering backward. "What the hell—"
The vortex lunged. An invisible force seized him, yanking him forward. Books flew past; the lamp shattered. Elias clawed at the desk edge, nails scraping wood, but his grip failed. The world inverted—nausea, pressure, a sensation of falling through endless nothing. Then impact.
Cold mud slapped against his cheek. Elias gasped, lungs burning as he pushed up on shaking arms. The ground was soft, wet, smelling of rich earth and crushed vegetation. No carpet, no desk. Dense fog pressed in, dawn light filtering weakly through towering stalks of bamboo that swayed overhead with a dry rustle. Dew soaked his jeans and T-shirt, chilling his skin. Birds called—sharp, unfamiliar cries that echoed strangely.
His longsword replica lay half-buried beside him, the HEMA practice blade he'd left propped against the wall. Elias grabbed it, the familiar leather grip grounding him as he staggered to his feet. Heart pounding, he scanned the grove: endless green shafts, mist curling at their bases, no sign of Houston's skyline or streetlights.
*Not a hallucination.* The mud was real—cold, clinging. The air tasted clean, sharp with sap and distant woodsmoke. His phone was gone. Wallet gone. Only the sword and the clothes on his back.
Elias forced his breathing steady. Panic wasted energy. Assess. Adapt.
He crept forward through the bamboo, stalks parting with soft whispers. Voices drifted ahead—Japanese, rapid and archaic, vowels rounded in a way that matched the old recordings he'd studied. His self-taught ear caught fragments immediately, piecing them together like a puzzle he'd practiced a thousand times.
A man's gruff tone: "…Eiroku sannen… Oda no Nobunaga ga kita hō ni susumu to iu…"
Eiroku third year. Oda Nobunaga advancing north.
A woman replying: "…Imagawa Yoshimoto ga Okehazama de kare o tsubusu to omotteru kedo… Owari no baka ni wa karakuri ga aru yo…"
Imagawa thinks he'll crush him at Okehazama… but the Fool of Owari has tricks.
Elias froze, heart racing—not from fear, but confirmation. His Japanese wasn't perfect; he missed nuances, filler words blurred together. But key terms landed clear: dates, names, places. Enough to navigate, especially with context. He'd drilled military vocabulary hardest—words like *ashigaru*, *teppō* (arquebus), *kura* (storehouse). Conversation would be halting, but comprehension gave him an edge.
He edged closer until he could peer through the leaves.
A small hamlet lay in a clearing below: thatched roofs sagging under morning dew, narrow paths of packed earth winding between low wooden homes. Smoke curled from clay braziers. Farmers in faded kosode and straw sandals worked the rice paddies, water glinting as they bent to plant seedlings. Women carried wooden buckets from a stream, children darted between houses with shrill laughter.
The dialect was Kansai-inflected, clipped in ways modern standard Japanese wasn't. More confirmation: central Japan, pre-unification turmoil.
Elias crouched lower, listening intently. Another snippet—a farmer to his neighbor: "…kome no shūkaku ga warui to, zeikin de minna shinuru zo…" Bad harvest, taxes will kill us all.
He understood most of it. His studies paid off.
No coincidence. The rift had placed him at a pivot point—months before Nobunaga's ambush victory.
Pragmatism took over. Survival first. His clothes marked him alien; the sword too—straight, double-edged. Direct approach risked accusations.
He retreated deeper into the grove, finding a concealed spot. The ground was damp but soft. Elias sat, back against a thick bamboo trunk, and took stock.
Assets: Sword. Partial language comprehension—listening strong, speaking cautious. Detailed knowledge of events, economies.
Liabilities: Limited fluency (he'd stumble on complex sentences, polite forms). No food, shelter.
Short-term: Observe more. Practice responses mentally. Forage—persimmons, roots. Introduce hygiene subtly later—boiled water to build trust.
Long-term: Leverage foresight. Let Nobunaga win Okehazama; exploit fallout. Secure rice *kura* for leverage. Trade for saltpeter, early firearms. Crop hints for loyalty.
Personally: Alliances. Women with skills—practical bonds that could deepen.
Unease stirred. This world's brutality—famine, casual death. His Japanese studies included grim accounts. Could he adapt without losing himself?
He pushed it down. Adapt or die.
The sun climbed, burning mist. Breakfast smells drifted—boiling rice, miso. Stomach clenched.
Elias rose. Time to circle the hamlet, listen, plan entry.
A child shouted—play. No alarm.
But the old woman paused again, squinting. "…ano kage… me ga hai-iro da…" Strange shadow… gray eyes.
Elias slipped deeper. Aura noted. Useful—or dangerous.
The game began.