The name followed him everywhere.
At first, it had been spoken behind hands and sleeves, slipped into conversation like a joke that excused itself. But by the time Nobunaga turned seven, it no longer needed to hide.
"The Fool of Owari."
It was said openly now—by servants in the kitchens, by guards at the gates, by monks who came and left too quickly, and by visiting retainers who smiled too carefully. Sometimes it was spoken with laughter. Sometimes with unease.
Never with affection.
Nobunaga heard it.
He pretended not to.
Or perhaps—more unsettlingly—he did not pretend at all.
He moved through Nagoya Castle as though the name belonged to others, not to him. He ran barefoot across stone courtyards in the cold mornings, ignored the formal paths laid out by custom, climbed where he should not climb, and touched what he should not touch. When reprimanded, he listened just long enough to confirm that the words held no threat.
Then he walked away.
His tutors complained.
"He will not sit," one said."He mocks the classics," said another."He laughs at ritual," a third whispered, as if the gods themselves might overhear.
Nobuhide listened to every report.
He dismissed none.He corrected none.
"He is learning," he said.
"But what?" the tutors asked.
Nobuhide's reply never changed."The world."
Lessons were held in a long, narrow room near the eastern wing, its walls lined with scrolls and low shelves stacked with texts borrowed from temples and noble households. The smell of old paper and ink hung thick in the air.
Nobunaga hated the room.
Not because of the lessons—but because of the way the men inside spoke to him.
They did not speak with him.
They spoke over him.
On one such morning, the tutor cleared his throat and unrolled a scroll with deliberate care.
"Recite," he said.
Nobunaga did not move.
"The passage," the tutor repeated, irritation creeping into his voice. "From the Analects."
Silence.
The other boys seated nearby shifted uncomfortably. They were sons of retainers, cousins, distant relations—children who knew better than to draw attention.
Nobunaga looked out the open window instead, watching dust drift in the sunlight.
"I asked you to recite," the tutor snapped.
Nobunaga turned his head slowly."Why?"
The tutor stiffened."Because it is required."
"Required by whom?"
"By—" The tutor faltered. "By tradition."
Nobunaga tilted his head."Is tradition stronger than a spear?"
A ripple of shocked murmurs moved through the room.
The tutor's face flushed."You mock what you do not understand."
Nobunaga smiled faintly."Then teach me why words stop blades."
The tutor struck him.
It was not a hard blow—more insult than injury—but the sound cracked sharply in the quiet room.
The other boys gasped.
Nobunaga did not cry.
He looked at the tutor, eyes bright with something dangerously close to delight.
"Now," he said, "you are honest."
Word of the incident spread quickly.
Too quickly.
Some laughed.Others frowned.
A senior retainer cornered Nobuhide later that day.
"My lord," the man said carefully, "this behavior… it invites disrespect."
"From whom?" Nobuhide asked.
"From everyone."
Nobuhide considered that.
"Good," he said at last. "Let them disrespect him now. It will cost them more later."
The retainer did not look reassured.
The first real fracture came during a festival.
It was meant to be harmless—a local celebration near the castle gates, with vendors, musicians, and a procession of priests offering blessings for prosperity. Nobuhide allowed his household to attend, hoping perhaps that the public setting might soften the boy.
Nobunaga wore ceremonial robes.
He hated them.
They restricted his movement, itched against his skin, and forced him to walk rather than run. He endured them only until the crowd grew thick.
Then he slipped away.
He found the musicians first.
They were drummers from a nearby village, laughing loudly, sake cups already half-empty. Nobunaga watched them for a moment, then grabbed one of the drumsticks and struck the drum as hard as he could.
The sound boomed, sharp and violent.
The musicians shouted in protest.
Nobunaga hit the drum again.
Harder.
"Stop that!" one of the men yelled, reaching for him.
Nobunaga ducked away, laughing, and knocked over a tray of offerings as he fled.
Fruit scattered. Cups shattered.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"Who is that child?" someone shouted.
Another voice answered, bitter and amused all at once.
"The Fool of Owari."
The name rang louder than the drum.
Nobunaga stopped running.
He turned slowly.
For the first time, he faced the crowd—not one man, not one voice, but all of them.
Children stared.Adults whispered.Priests frowned.
Nobunaga felt it then—not confusion, not fear—but something colder.
Distance.
This was the moment he understood:They were not correcting him.They were defining him.
A guard reached for him.
Nobunaga struck first.
Not hard.Not skillfully.
But without hesitation.
The guard stumbled back in shock.
For a heartbeat, the world froze.
Then chaos erupted.
That night, the household was divided.
"He embarrassed us," some said."He is dangerous," others whispered."He will bring ruin," a few dared to voice aloud.
Nobuhide listened.
Then he spoke.
"No," he said. "He will bring clarity."
In his room, Nobunaga sat alone.
His hands were dirty. His robes were torn. His knuckles ached.
He stared at them, flexing his fingers slowly.
For the first time, he did not laugh.
He understood now.
This world did not want him to belong.
So he would not.
He would stand apart.He would stand above.
And one day—
They would have to look up.