The first time Oda Nobunaga understood the difference between anger and intent, he was ten years old.
Anger was simple.It burned hot, flared quickly, and vanished just as fast. He had known anger since infancy—at restraint, at false smiles, at voices that pretended kindness while calculating removal.
The intent was heavier.
Intent waited.
Nagoya Castle entered a season of uneasy calm. The border disputes that had plagued Owari eased, not through resolution, but through temporary exhaustion. Nobuhide's enemies licked their wounds. His allies watched carefully. Within the walls, life resumed its rhythms—training at dawn, lessons at midday, and councils by lantern light.
To the casual eye, Nobunaga had become manageable.
He rose when told.He attended the instruction.He bowed with precision.
Those who wished to believe in reform found evidence everywhere.
Those who watched more closely saw something else.
They saw how he lingered after lessons, asking questions that were not part of the curriculum. How he followed guards during patrols, memorizing routes and blind spots. How he listened—not merely to words, but to hesitation.
He was learning how decisions were made.
The boy named Matsuo was twelve.
He was the son of a minor retainer—too insignificant to matter politically, too visible to be ignored. He trained with the other boys in the outer yard, carrying wooden spears and shouting drills with exaggerated enthusiasm.
He hated Nobunaga.
Not quietly.
Not cleverly.
He hated him openly, the way boys do when they sense weakness sanctioned by adults.
"The Fool of Owari," Matsuo called him one morning, loud enough for others to hear.
Laughter followed.
Nobunaga did not react.
That alone unsettled Matsuo.
The insults escalated.
At first, they were words—mocking bows, exaggerated obedience, and crude jokes whispered just loudly enough to travel. Then came obstruction: blocking paths, knocking scrolls from Nobunaga's hands, and "accidental" shoves during practice.
The tutors noticed.They said nothing.
Guards saw.They looked away.
Matsuo interpreted silence as permission.
The breaking point came not during training but during an errand.
Nobunaga had been sent to deliver a message to the quartermaster—a trivial task meant, perhaps, to remind him of his place. The corridors were quiet, the afternoon sun slanting low through open shutters.
Matsuo followed him.
"Where are you going, lord?" Matsuo asked, voice dripping with false courtesy.
Nobunaga did not turn.
"Careful," Matsuo continued. "You might get lost."
Nobunaga stopped.
Slowly, he faced him.
"Yes," he said. "I might."
Matsuo grinned."Good."
He shoved him.
Hard.
Nobunaga stumbled and caught himself against the wall.
For a moment, anger surged—hot, immediate.
Then it passed.
In its place came something else.
Clarity.
Nobunaga straightened.
"You shouldn't have done that," he said calmly.
Matsuo laughed."Or what?"
Nobunaga looked down the corridor.
Empty.
No witnesses.
No interruption.
He looked back at Matsuo.
"Nothing," he said.
He turned away and continued walking.
Matsuo blinked, confused.
Then he followed—closer this time.
The storage hall lay near the old granary, rarely used, its doors half-rotted from neglect. Nobunaga slipped inside without slowing.
Matsuo followed.
"Running away now?" he jeered.
The door slid shut behind them.
The hall smelled of dust and grain, the air thick and stale. Light filtered weakly through cracks in the planks.
Nobunaga turned.
He did not shout.He did not threaten.
He stepped forward.
Matsuo hesitated.
That hesitation was the moment Nobunaga had been waiting for.
He struck.
Not wildly.Not blindly.
He drove his shoulder into Matsuo's chest, sending him sprawling backward into a stack of crates. Wood splintered. Matsuo cried out in shock more than pain.
Nobunaga did not stop.
He seized a fallen wooden rod—used once to lever sacks—and raised it.
Matsuo scrambled backward.
"Wait—!" he shouted.
Nobunaga paused.
For a single breath.
In that pause, he understood everything:
If he stopped now, this would continue.If he struck once, it would escalate.If he struck until it ended, it would end.
The rod felt solid in his hands.
He chose.
The blow came down.
Once.
Twice.
Matsuo screamed, then choked into silence as the air fled his lungs.
The third blow broke something.
Not visibly.But irreversibly.
Nobunaga stepped back, breathing hard.
Matsuo lay curled, gasping, blood seeping from his mouth.
Alive.
Barely.
Nobunaga stared at him.
He felt no triumph.
No guilt.
Only a steady, unsettling calm.
They found Matsuo hours later.
The hall filled with voices, lanterns, and alarm. Physicians were summoned. Questions were asked.
Nobunaga did not hide.
He stood where he was when they arrived.
"Yes," he said when asked. "I did it."
The simplicity of the admission unnerved them more than denial would have.
"Why?" someone demanded.
Nobunaga looked at the blood on his hands.
"Because he would not stop," he replied.
The answer satisfied no one.
It did not need to.
The council that night was not loud.
It was cold.
"He will kill," someone said.
"He already nearly has," another replied.
"This was no accident."
Nobuhide listened.
When it was over, he dismissed them all.
Father and son stood facing each other in silence.
"You chose this," Nobuhide said at last.
"Yes," Nobunaga replied.
"You understood the consequence."
"Yes."
Nobuhide studied him.
"You will be feared for this."
Nobunaga nodded."That is acceptable."
For the first time, Nobuhide felt something close to dread.
Not of losing control.
But what would happen when this child no longer needed permission?
That night, Nobunaga slept deeply.
For the first time in his life, no voices followed him into dreams.
He had crossed a line.
And discovered that the world did not end.