Tenbun, Year Three.Owari Province.
Before dawn, Nagoya Castle was already awake.
Not awake in the way cities awaken—through bells, footsteps, or the slow rhythm of labor—but alert, tense, and listening. The mist that rolled in from the lowlands clung stubbornly to the moat and pressed against the stone foundations, blurring the boundary between water and earth. From the watchtowers, the surrounding fields were little more than pale shadows, as if the land itself were holding its breath.
Inside the inner compound, lanterns burned longer than usual.
Women moved quickly through the corridors of the birthing quarters, sleeves rolled, hair bound tight. Bowls of hot water were carried in and out. The smell of boiled herbs mixed with sweat and smoke, heavy enough to settle in the throat. No one spoke loudly. No one laughed.
This was not merely the birth of a child.
This was the birth of an heir.
Oda Nobuhide's household had seen blood before—plenty of it. Soldiers had died in the courtyards. Enemies had been interrogated, executed, and dragged away at dawn. Yet birth carried a different kind of weight. It promised continuity. Or catastrophe.
Then the cry came.
It did not creep into the air.
It tore through it.
The sound burst from the women's quarters with such sudden force that a guard on duty near the eastern gate instinctively reached for his spear. A young servant froze mid-step, water sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the bucket in his hands. In the stables, horses stamped and snorted, ears flicking sharply as if they had heard the challenge of another animal.
The cry was loud—too loud.
It was hoarse, unbroken, and sustained beyond what any newborn should manage. It did not quiver. It did not weaken. It rose, held, and rose again, raw and furious, as though the child were not pleading for breath but announcing his arrival with defiance.
Several women inside the chamber exchanged uneasy glances.
"That is no ordinary cry," one whispered.
"Do not say such things," another hissed back, though her own hands trembled.
In an age ruled by omens as much as armies, words carried consequences. Strength at birth was welcomed—but excess, the elders believed, invited imbalance. Heaven tolerated no extremes.
The cry came again, sharper this time.
An elderly midwife, her hands stained dark, flinched despite herself."Such lungs," she muttered under her breath. "Too strong for a child born into this age."
A younger woman shot her a warning look."Enough."
The mother lay on the mat, her body slick with sweat, hair clinging to her face in dark strands. Her chest rose shallowly, each breath an effort. Her eyes were half-open, unfocused, staring somewhere beyond the ceiling beams. She did not reach for the child. She did not ask.
Pain had hollowed her out, leaving only exhaustion—and something colder beneath it.
Outside, beneath the overhanging eaves of the main hall, Oda Nobuhide stood motionless.
He had been there since before the first cry.
He was not tall but compact, built for endurance rather than spectacle. His armor was practical, its lacquer dulled by years of use, and cords darkened by rain and sweat. A sword rested at his side, its hilt worn smooth where his hand returned again and again without conscious thought.
Mist dampened the edges of his sleeves, but he did not brush it away.
He listened.
The cry cut through the thin wooden walls with unmistakable ferocity.
Nearby, the household physician knelt low, his forehead pressed close to the floorboards, posture rigid with caution.
"My lord," the old man said carefully, each syllable weighed, "the child has been born."
Nobuhide did not turn.
"A son?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Alive?"
A pause—brief, but telling.
"Very much so."
Only then did Nobuhide release the breath he had been holding.
Nagoya Castle was no grand fortress. Its walls were sturdy but unremarkable, its towers modest compared to the monumental castles rising elsewhere across the country. Owari itself was a precarious land, wedged between stronger powers like a strip of flesh between blades. Nobuhide had spent his life fighting to expand his reach, forging alliances, breaking them, and spilling blood when necessary.
Every campaign, every betrayal, every calculated mercy had led here.
This child would inherit not peace, but danger.
Suddenly, the cry stopped.
The silence that followed was wrong.
Too abrupt. Too complete.
Nobuhide's brow tightened. He took a step forward just as a sharp gasp escaped from within the chamber.
"My lord—!"
The sliding doors were pulled open.
A servant emerged, cradling a small bundle wrapped tightly in cloth. Her arms trembled despite her effort to steady them. Her face was pale, lips pressed thin, as if she were holding back words she dared not speak aloud.
The child was silent.
His eyes were open.
That alone unsettled the room.
Newborns were meant to be blind, unfocused creatures of instinct rather than awareness. But these eyes were dark and steady. They did not wander. They did not blink.
For a fleeting, irrational moment, Nobuhide felt as though the child were not merely looking at him but assessing him.
"He… he stopped crying," the servant said softly. "He cries only when he wishes to."
Nobuhide reached out and took the child into his arms.
The weight was light, almost fragile, yet the stillness of the infant made Nobuhide acutely aware of what he held. The child's fingers curled slowly, deliberately, grasping at empty air. His breathing was calm, controlled, and unsettlingly so.
There was no softness in his expression.
No helplessness.
The physician cleared his throat."Children born in turbulent times," he said cautiously, "are often said to carry heavy stars."
Nobuhide's mouth twitched."Is that your diagnosis," he asked, "or a rumor you wish to start?"
The physician lowered his gaze."It is what others will say, my lord."
Nobuhide understood.
Rumors were weapons. In a land governed by fear and faith, whispers could weaken loyalty more efficiently than armies.
"And the mother?" Nobuhide asked.
"She lives," the physician replied. "But she sleeps."
That was enough.
Nobuhide looked again at the child.
"What name will you give him?" one of the women asked, unable to restrain her curiosity.
Nobuhide did not answer at once.
Names were not mere sounds. They were declarations—hopes sharpened into syllables, destinies pressed into form.
He thought of Owari's fractured clans. Of Kyoto, where emperors starved behind crumbling palace walls. Of a shogunate rotting from within, clinging stubbornly to relevance while the world burned around it.
And, unexpectedly, he thought of fire.
"Nobunaga," he said at last.
Faithful ambition.
The name settled into the misted air like a challenge.
The child did not cry again.
Instead, his gaze remained fixed, unyielding, as though some unspoken understanding had already taken root:
That this world was not to be obeyed.
It was to be tested.
It was to be broken.