The rain did not fall all at once.
It began as a whisper—fine, persistent droplets that barely disturbed the surface of the moat. By nightfall, it had settled into a steady rhythm, drumming against the tiled roofs of Nagoya Castle, seeping into the wood, the stone, and the bones of the place. Lanterns were lit early, their yellow glow stretching along the corridors like cautious sentries.
Inside the women's quarters, the mother lay awake.
Sleep refused her.
Her body ached with a dull, relentless pain that seemed to pulse in time with the rain, yet exhaustion could not drag her under. Each time her eyes closed, the same image surfaced—those eyes. Dark. Still. Too aware.
She turned her head slightly.
The child was quiet.
That frightened her more than the crying had.
A wet nurse sat nearby, rocking gently, humming under her breath. The melody was an old one, meant to soothe restless infants, but it seemed to irritate this child instead. His small body stiffened, his fingers curling sharply against the cloth as though resisting the touch.
"Easy now," the woman whispered, forcing calm into her voice. "You must rest, little lord."
The child did not respond.
He did not cry.He did not relax.He did not seek warmth.
He simply lay there, eyes half-lidded yet alert, watching shadows move across the ceiling beams as the lantern swayed.
The mother swallowed.
She had borne children before. She knew the rhythms of infancy—the searching mouths, the clumsy grasping hands, and the soft helplessness that demanded protection. This child possessed none of that. He felt closed, sealed, as though something within him had already drawn a boundary between himself and the world.
At last, unable to bear the silence, she spoke.
"Does he ever sleep?"
The wet nurse hesitated—just a fraction too long.
"He rests," she said carefully.
That was not an answer.
The mother turned her face toward the wall, her fingers tightening against the futon. She did not weep. Tears felt indulgent, even dangerous. In a household like this, weakness had a way of being remembered.
Outside the quarters, footsteps passed—soft, measured. Voices murmured. The castle did not sleep, either.
In the lower hall, the men had gathered again.
This time, there was no pretense of coincidence.
They sat in a loose semicircle, armor stacked within reach, swords laid neatly beside them. Cups of sake were poured, but few drank deeply. These were men accustomed to reading battlefields, to sensing shifts before banners moved. And something had shifted.
"I tell you, the child stared at me," one said quietly. "Not like a baby. Like a man."
A snort followed."You let your imagination get the better of you."
"Did I?" the first man shot back. "Then explain why even the monks refuse to linger."
Another voice cut in, low and edged."Superstition spreads faster than fire. If we let this continue—"
An older retainer raised a hand, silencing the room.
He was one of the few who had served Nobuhide since his earliest campaigns, his face carved with lines that spoke of long marches and harder choices.
"Watch your words," he said. "This is the lord's son."
"That is precisely why we must speak," someone replied. "An heir is not just a child. He is a banner. And banners draw arrows."
Silence followed.
Outside, the rain intensified.
They all understood the danger. Owari was not secure. Rival clans watched for weakness, for any sign that the Oda household was divided, uncertain, or cursed. A rumor, if nurtured, could become an excuse for rebellion.
"The boy must be seen," another said finally. "Shown to be… ordinary."
A few men exchanged looks.
"Ordinary," the old retainer repeated softly. "That may be difficult."
Nobuhide knew of these conversations.
He heard them without hearing them—reports delivered with careful phrasing, glances that lingered a moment too long, pauses where there should have been certainty. He did not reprimand his men. Nor did he reassure them.
Instead, he watched.
Days passed. Then weeks.
The child grew quickly.
"Too quickly," some whispered.
He did not cry often. When he did, it was sudden and fierce, a sound that cut through rooms and silenced conversation. More unsettling, however, was his silence. He could lie awake for long stretches, eyes tracking movement, following voices, as though absorbing the world rather than reacting to it.
When carried into formal rooms, he did not fuss. He did not bow his head or avert his gaze. He stared openly at armored men, at visiting retainers, and at priests and merchants alike.
Some found it amusing.Others did not.
A visiting monk, invited to bless the child, performed the rites quickly and declined the customary donation. He left with his head bowed, lips moving in silent prayer.
In the kitchens, servants whispered.
"Inauspicious," one muttered.
"An oni-child," another said, crossing herself.
"Careful," a third hissed. "Walls listen."
But walls, like rumors, had a way of letting things through.
One afternoon, Nobuhide stood in the inner courtyard, watching as the child was carried across the open space.
The sky was clear for once, the rain having finally moved on. Sunlight struck the stone, reflecting sharply. The wet nurse paused, adjusting her grip as the child shifted in her arms.
At that moment, a horse reared nearby, startled by the sudden clatter of a dropped spear. The animal's scream cut through the air.
The wet nurse flinched.
The child did not.
His eyes followed the horse calmly, unblinking, fingers tightening once against the cloth.
Nobuhide felt something tighten in his chest.
Later that evening, a senior retainer approached him.
"My lord," the man said carefully, kneeling low, "the household grows… uneasy."
"Uneasy? " Nobuhide echoed.
"There is talk," the retainer continued. "Whispers. Some fear the child may invite misfortune."
Nobuhide regarded him coolly."And you?"
The man hesitated."I fear what others may believe."
That, Nobuhide knew, was the more dangerous answer.
The name came into use quietly.
At first, it was spoken as a joke, a way to deflect discomfort.
"The child behaves oddly," someone would say.
"Ah," another would reply with a forced laugh, "the Fool of Owari."
Laughter followed—thin, nervous.
But jokes, repeated often enough, hardened into labels.
By the time the child could walk, the name had spread beyond the castle walls.
Nobunaga did not walk so much as roam.
He wandered where he pleased, tugging at armor cords, reaching for blades, and tearing at scrolls with little regard for their value. When reprimanded, he did not lower his head. When struck lightly for rudeness, he did not cry.
He laughed.
The sound unsettled even those who meant no harm.
Nobuhide was informed of every incident.
He punished no one.
"He will learn," he said.
"And if he does not?" someone asked, carefully.
Nobuhide's gaze hardened."Then this world will teach him."
Late one night, long after the castle had quieted, Nobuhide stood again at the small shrine within the grounds.
He did not kneel this time.
The stone altar was cold beneath his palm.
"This age devours the weak," he said softly, to no one and nothing. "If my son is to be devoured, so be it. But if he is to devour others…"
Nobuhide straightened.
"Then let them fear him."
Behind him, unseen, the child slept.
Or perhaps—He watched.