The incident at the festival did not fade.
It hardened.
At first, Nobuhide's retainers tried to contain it the way one contains smoke—by closing doors, lowering voices, and pretending nothing had changed. Orders were given quietly. Guards were instructed to be more attentive. Tutors were told to "adjust their methods."
But the name spread anyway.
Beyond the castle walls, villagers laughed nervously when they heard it. Merchants whispered it into their sleeves before bowing too deeply. Priests, once eager to accept patronage, now spoke of inconvenient schedules and unfavorable stars.
Inside the household, something far more dangerous began to take shape.
Calculation.
The boy was eight when blood was spilled in earnest.
It happened not during a lesson or a festival, but in the armory.
Nobunaga had always been drawn to the place. The smell of oil and metal, the weight of weapons stacked neatly against the walls—there was honesty there. No pretense. No words pretending to be stronger than steel.
On that afternoon, the armory was nearly empty.
A single guard sat near the entrance, half-distracted, polishing a spearhead. He noticed the boy only when Nobunaga was already inside.
"You should not be here," the guard said, not unkindly.
Nobunaga did not answer.
He walked past the man, running his fingers along the weapons, eyes bright. His movements were quick and purposeful, as though he already knew what he sought.
"Nobunaga-sama," the guard said again, firmer now. "This is not—"
The boy stopped.
Slowly, he turned.
"What happens," Nobunaga asked, "if I take one?"
The guard frowned."You will be punished."
"By whom?"
The guard hesitated.
Nobunaga smiled.
That hesitation was enough.
He reached out and lifted a short blade from the rack—not a sword, not yet, but a dagger used for utility, sharp enough to cut rope or flesh with equal ease.
The guard rose to his feet.
"Put that down," he ordered.
Nobunaga weighed the blade in his hand.
"Make me," he said.
The guard moved.
He did not intend harm. He meant to seize the boy's wrist to remind him of order. But the moment he reached forward, Nobunaga lunged.
The blade flashed.
It was clumsy.It was untrained.
But it was real.
The guard cried out as the dagger tore across his forearm, opening skin to the bone. Blood splattered the wooden floor.
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Then the guard staggered back, clutching his arm, eyes wide with disbelief.
Nobunaga stared at the blood.
Not with shock.
With fascination.
It pooled quickly, dark and steaming against the wood. The smell was sharp, unmistakable.
The guard collapsed to his knees.
Shouts erupted outside the armory.
By the time others rushed in, Nobunaga had already stepped back, blade lowered, head tilted as if studying a puzzle he had finally solved.
The guard lived.
That fact saved Nobunaga's life.
But it did not save his position.
The incident could not be dismissed. Blood spilled within the castle walls—by the heir's hand—was no longer mischief. It was a threat.
That night, the senior retainers gathered.
Not as companions.Not as advisors.
As judges.
"This cannot continue," one said bluntly.
"He drew blood," another added. "On purpose."
"A child does not do that by accident."
Silence followed.
At last, the oldest among them spoke.
"There have been… discussions," he said carefully.
All eyes turned to him.
"Of succession."
The word landed heavily.
"There are other sons," another retainer said, voice low. "Younger. More pliable. More… acceptable."
Someone else nodded."The clan's survival must come before sentiment."
Outside the room, rain began to fall again.
Nobuhide arrived late.
He listened without interrupting.
When they finished, he spoke only one sentence.
"Which of you would dare say this to his face?"
No one answered.
Nobuhide's gaze swept the room.
"You fear him," he said. "Good. Fear is honest."
"That fear will turn inward," someone protested. "Toward us."
Nobuhide smiled thinly."Then grow stronger."
Nobunaga was confined.
Not imprisoned—but restricted.
His movements were watched. His access was curtailed. The armory was forbidden. Lessons resumed under stricter supervision.
He noticed immediately.
He said nothing.
He complied just enough.
And learned everything.
He learned which guards avoided his gaze.Which servants trembled when he passed.Which retainers spoke softly—and which did not speak at all.
Most importantly, he learned that fear could be made to work.
One night, unable to sleep, Nobunaga slipped from his quarters.
The guards assigned to watch him were tired. They underestimated him.
He moved through the dark corridors silently, counting steps, memorizing turns. He stopped outside a room where voices murmured.
"…it would be cleaner," someone said."…before he grows older," another replied.
Nobunaga leaned closer.
He did not understand every word.
He understood enough.
He returned to his room before dawn.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
They were thinking of removing him.
Not correcting.Not shaping.
Replacing.
The realization did not frighten him.
It clarified him.
The next morning, Nobunaga did something unexpected.
He bowed.
Deeply.Formally.
In front of his tutor.
Gasps rippled through the room.
"I will learn," he said calmly. "Teach me."
The tutor nearly wept with relief.
From that day forward, Nobunaga changed.
He sat.He listened.He memorized it.
And behind his obedience, something far sharper was being forged.
Nobuhide watched this transformation with narrowed eyes.
He understood.
This was not a submission.
This was preparation.