Matsuo did not die.
That fact complicated everything.
Had the boy died, the matter would have followed an older, simpler path: apologies offered, compensation paid, and a minor retainer quietly silenced by gratitude or fear. Death, in a warrior's house, was tragic—but manageable.
Survival was not.
Matsuo lived through the night, feverish and broken, ribs cracked, one arm useless, his breath rasping with every shallow inhale. The physician spoke carefully, choosing words that left room for retreat.
"He will live," he said. "But he will not be the same."
That sentence reached the council chamber before dawn.
And with it came consequence.
The boy's father arrived first.
He did not shout.
He did not weep.
He knelt before the assembled retainers with such rigid composure that it unsettled those watching. His son lay between life and death, yet his voice did not tremble.
"My lord," he said, addressing Nobuhide, "my son struck the heir?"
"No," Nobuhide replied evenly. "The heir struck your son."
The correction mattered.
The man bowed deeper."Then I ask only this," he said. "Was it justice?"
Silence followed.
No one answered.
Not because they lacked opinions—but because they understood what the question truly asked.
If it were justice, Nobunaga would stand above correction.If it were not, he could be removed.
Nobuhide dismissed the man gently, promising compensation, medical care, and protection. The father accepted all of it without protest.
He did not thank Nobuhide.
When he left, the room felt colder.
The council convened in full that evening.
Not all were present—some were absent by design—but enough sat in attendance for the decision to matter. Armor lay nearby. Swords rested within reach. No one pretended this was merely a discussion.
"This cannot be allowed," one retainer said plainly. "Not because of cruelty—but because of precedent."
"He is ten," another added. "Ten. And he chose to cripple a boy."
"Not kill him," someone countered.
"That makes it worse," came the reply. "It shows control."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber.
They all understood what that meant.
Children lost control.Men chose.
A senior retainer cleared his throat.
"The boy Matsuo provoked him," he said carefully. "Repeatedly."
"So we are to allow duels in corridors now?" another snapped.
"It was not a duel," the first replied. "It was judgment."
The word hung in the air like a drawn blade.
Nobuhide had not spoken.
When he finally did, the room stilled.
"What you are truly debating," he said calmly, "is not whether my son was right."
Eyes turned toward him.
"You are debating whether he should be feared."
No one denied it.
Nobuhide leaned forward slightly.
"Fear has always ruled this house," he continued. "Fear of enemies. Fear of weakness. Fear of losing what little ground we hold."
He paused.
"My son has merely learned the language you taught him."
Silence.
Uncomfortable.
Then someone spoke the thought they had all avoided.
"If he continues," the man said, "others will strike first. Not children. Men."
Nobuhide nodded."Yes."
That was all.
Nobunaga was not present at the council.
He was kept deliberately distant, confined to his quarters—not as punishment, but as containment. Guards stood outside his door. Servants entered only when summoned.
He did not protest.
He used the time to think.
He replayed the moment again and again—not the blow itself, but the pause before it. The understanding that had settled so clearly in that instant.
This world responded to decisiveness.
Not morality.Not fairness.
Outcome.
Matsuo would never mock him again.
Others would remember.
The thought did not comfort him.
It anchored him.
Nobuhide visited him the following night.
He dismissed the guards and entered alone.
The lantern cast long shadows across the room.
"You knew this would happen," Nobuhide said.
"Yes," Nobunaga replied.
"You knew they would gather. Debate. Measure you."
"Yes."
Nobuhide studied him.
"You did not act in anger."
"No."
"Why?"
Nobunaga considered the question carefully.
"Because anger ends," he said. "Fear remains."
Nobuhide closed his eyes briefly.
This was the moment he had feared—and anticipated.
"You have crossed a line," he said. "From which there is no return."
Nobunaga nodded."I know."
"Then understand this," Nobuhide continued. "You will no longer be protected as a child."
Nobunaga's gaze sharpened."Good."
Nobuhide looked at him for a long time.
Then he said the words that changed everything.
"I will send you away."
Nobunaga did not react.
"Not in exile," Nobuhide clarified. "In preparation."
The decision spread quickly.
The heir would be removed from the inner household.
Not punished.Not hidden.
Sent.
Some interpreted it as mercy.Others have surrendered.
Only a few understood the truth.
Nobuhide was narrowing the battlefield.
Preparations were made in silence.
Nobunaga was informed of where he would go—but not how long he would remain.
"You will be placed where strength matters more than names," Nobuhide said. "Where obedience will not save you."
Nobunaga accepted this without comment.
That night, he packed nothing.
He did not look back at the walls of Nagoya Castle.
He had already left them.
The day Matsuo was carried from the castle, pale and broken, Nobunaga passed him in the corridor.
Their eyes met.
Matsuo looked away first.
Nobunaga did not smile.
He did not need to.
By the time the gates closed behind him, the household understood what had occurred.
This was not discipline.
It was a deployment.
And somewhere beyond the walls of Owari, a boy who had chosen blood over retreat was being sent to learn what blood truly cost.