Elias slipped through the bamboo grove like a shadow, each step deliberate to avoid the dry crackle of fallen leaves. The fog lingered, a thick veil that muffled sounds and hid him from prying eyes. His stomach growled—a sharp reminder that modern conveniences were gone. No vending machines, no drive-thrus. Survival meant foraging, and his knowledge of the era helped: wild persimmons should be ripening now, tart but edible. Tubers like arrowroot in the underbrush. He'd need fire soon, but that risked detection.
He paused at the grove's edge, crouching low. The hamlet sprawled below, perhaps two dozen homes clustered around a central well. Farmers waded knee-deep in the paddies, their voices carrying in snippets that his ear latched onto. His self-taught Japanese kicked in—years of poring over texts, listening to archived recordings, practicing with apps and period films. It wasn't conversational fluency; he could read kanji in historical contexts, understand structured sentences, but slang or rapid dialect threw him. Still, immersion would sharpen it. Listen, parse, repeat mentally.
A farmer bent over seedlings, muttering to his companion: "…kotoshi no ine wa yoku sodatsu ka na… ame ga ōsugite dame da yo…"
This year's rice… grow well? Too much rain… bad.
Elias broke it down: "Kotoshi" (this year), "ine" (rice plants), "sodatsu" (grow), "ame" (rain), "ōsugite" (too much), "dame" (no good). The Kansai lilt softened the ends, but the core was clear. He repeated it silently, mimicking the cadence. Useful—crop talk could build rapport later.
The old woman from earlier shuffled past, balancing a bucket. She called to a child: "…oi, Taro! Hayaku kaette koi! Asobi o yame nasai!"
Hey, Taro! Come home quick! Stop playing!
Simple commands— "oi" (hey), "hayaku" (quickly), "kaette koi" (come home), "asobi" (play), "yame nasai" (stop). Elias noted the name: Taro, common enough. He filed it away. Names humanized; use them to blend.
His mouth was dry, throat scratchy. Water first. The stream the women drew from snaked along the hamlet's edge—clear, but potentially contaminated. Elias recalled era diseases: dysentery from unclean sources. Boil it later. For now, observe.
He circled wider, staying in cover. The bamboo thinned toward a patch of wild growth—persimmon trees, heavy with orange fruit. He plucked one, biting into the crisp skin. Tart juice burst on his tongue, astringent but nourishing. Better than nothing. As he ate, more voices drifted from a nearby hut.
A man's low grumble: "…zeikin ga takai… Oda no yatsu ga motto toru to iu hanashi da…"
Taxes high… Oda guy says take more…
"Oda no yatsu"—derogatory for Nobunaga. "Zeikin" (taxes), "takai" (high), "motto toru" (take more). Elias chewed slowly, analyzing. Peasants resented the daimyo's levies—rice payments funding wars. Opportunity: if he could offer relief or alternatives, loyalty followed.
But his accent— if he spoke now, it'd be thick, words halting. Practice. He whispered to himself: "Watashi wa… tabemono o sagashite imasu." I'm looking for food. Clunky, but basic. Add politeness: "Sumimasen, tabemono o itadakemasu ka?" Excuse me, may I have food?
The sun burned higher, fog lifting. Elias wiped persimmon juice from his chin, scanning for threats. No patrols— this was rural Owari, not a fortress. Bandits were the real danger, as he'd read. His sword felt heavy, reassuring.
He moved to a vantage overlooking the central path. A group of women gathered at the well, buckets clanging. Their chatter was faster, laced with laughter.
"…ano otoko, kirei na me da ne… demo, ano fuku wa hen da yo…"
That man, pretty eyes… but, those clothes strange…
Elias tensed. Were they talking about him? He hadn't been spotted—or had he? "Kirei na me" (pretty eyes), "fuku" (clothes), "hen" (strange). No, they were gossiping about a traveler, perhaps. But it reminded him: his jeans and shirt screamed outsider. Strip and steal kosode? Risky. Dye or modify later.
One woman continued: "…Imagawa ga katsu to omou? Oda wa baka da kara…"
Think Imagawa wins? Oda is fool so…
Classic pre-Okehazama sentiment. Elias smirked inwardly. They didn't know the storm coming. He repeated the phrase mentally, practicing inflection.
Hunger gnawed deeper. He needed more than fruit. Roots next. He spotted a clump of wild arrowroot—broad leaves, edible tubers. Kneeling, he dug with his hands, mud caking his fingers. The fibrous crunch would tide him over.
As he worked, a child's voice rang out closer—too close. "Oba-chan! Koko ni hen na kage ga aru!"
Grandma! Strange shadow here!
Elias froze. The boy, perhaps eight, pointed toward the grove. The old woman from earlier approached, squinting.
"…nani? Gaijin no yō na… ano hai-iro no me…"
What? Like foreigner… those gray eyes…
She'd seen him. Elias's mind raced. Run? No—draw attention. Speak? Test his Japanese.
He stood slowly, hands visible, sword sheathed at his side. Neutral expression—poised, not threatening.
The woman halted, eyes widening. The boy hid behind her.
Elias cleared his throat, speaking carefully, accent thick but words deliberate: "Sumimasen… mizu o… itadakemasu ka?" Excuse me… water… may I have?
The woman blinked, then narrowed her eyes. "…nani o iu? Gaijin da na… kuchi ga okashii…"
What say? Foreigner… mouth strange…
She understood enough—called him gaijin. His pronunciation was off, vowels too flat.
He tried again, slower: "Watashi wa… tabi hito desu. Tabemono to mizu o… onegai shimasu." I am traveler. Food and water… please.
The boy tugged her sleeve: "Kowai yo, oba-chan…" Scary, grandma…
She hesitated, then waved him off. "…chotto matte. Mura no chō ni iu kara." Wait little. Tell village head.
She shuffled away, leaving Elias exposed. Pragmatic choice: no fight, no flight. Wait, observe response.
Minutes later, a group approached—three men, sturdy farmers with hoes that could double as weapons. The village head, older with a stern face, led them.
"…kore ga ano gaijin ka? Nani o shitai?" This the foreigner? What want?
Elias bowed slightly—custom he knew. "Hajimemashite. Watashi wa Elias desu. Tabemono o sagashite imasu." Nice meet. I Elias. Looking food.
His grammar was rough—missed particles—but intent clear. The headman frowned, appraising.
"…Eriasu? Fuku ga hen da. Doko kara kita?" Elias? Clothes strange. Where from?
Elias pointed vaguely east—safe lie. "Tōi tokoro kara… yama no mukō." Far place… beyond mountains.
Whispers: "…ano me… oni no yō…" Those eyes… like demon…
The aura again. His gray eyes, uncommon here, caught the light oddly.
The headman grunted. "…koko wa muri da. Bandit ga ōi. Tabemono o yaru kara, hayaku iku." Here difficult. Bandits many. Give food, go quick.
Relief. No hostility—yet. Elias nodded. "Arigatō gozaimasu." Thank you.
They led him to the edge, handing a small bundle: rice balls, dried fish. Simple, but vital.
As he left, the old woman watched. "…ano otoko, yume no yō na hanashi o suru…" That man, talks like dream…
Elias retreated to the grove, bundle clutched. First contact: success. Language held—barely. More practice needed.
He ate sparingly, rice sticky and plain but filling. The fish's salty tang revived him. Now, plan deeper immersion. Hide nearby, eavesdrop daily. Mimic phrases. Infiltrate gradually.
Night fell cold. Elias huddled under bamboo, sword close. Wolves howled distant. Isolation bit, but he pushed it down. Adapt.
Internal clash surfaced: this world's harshness—children laboring, fear in voices. But opportunity outweighed. Build, secure, thrive.
Dawn broke with more voices. Elias listened, parsing, improving.