The break came not with violence, but with laughter.
It happened on the third day of mourning.
By then, Nagoya Castle had settled into the rigid choreography of grief. White cloth hung from beams and gates. The halls smelled perpetually of incense and ash. Monks moved in measured lines, chanting sutras that blurred into a single, unbroken sound. Retainers wore somber expressions carved carefully into place; each brow was weighed for effect.
Grief had become performance.
Nobunaga watched it all with growing impatience.
He wore mourning robes, as required, but they sat poorly on him. The fabric restricted his movement; the color offended him. White suggested purity, surrender, and acceptance.
None of these felt honest.
The hall was crowded that afternoon. Senior retainers, allied envoys, and minor lords—men who had come not only to honor Nobuhide but also to measure the man who would replace him. Eyes followed Nobunaga wherever he stood. Conversations softened when he approached, then resumed behind him with renewed intensity.
He heard fragments.
"He has not shed a tear.""He thinks himself already secure.""He does not understand what is expected."
Nobunaga understood perfectly.
That was the problem.
As the chanting paused, a servant approached with ceremonial sake—an offering to the dead, meant to be placed untouched before the altar.
Nobunaga took the cup.
For a moment, hope stirred among those watching. Perhaps now he would perform the final, essential gesture. Perhaps now he would bow, lower his head, allow the ritual to claim him.
Instead, he drank.
The sound of it—quiet, unmistakable—cut through the hall.
Several monks froze mid-chant.
A retainer inhaled sharply.
Nobunaga lowered the cup, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and set it down.
"My father drank," he said calmly. "He would not object."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then whispers erupted—sharp, uncontrolled.
"This is blasphemy.""He mocks the rites.""He shames us all."
An elderly retainer stepped forward, his voice trembling with restrained fury.
"My lord," he said, bowing deeply, "this is not proper."
Nobunaga looked at him.
"Proper for whom?" he asked.
"For the dead," the man replied.
Nobunaga's gaze hardened."The dead do not see," he said. "Only the living do."
That was when laughter escaped him.
Not loud.Not mocking.
A short, incredulous sound, as though he had finally grasped a joke no one else understood.
The reaction was immediate.
Faces flushed. Hands clenched. Several men shifted their weight instinctively, as though expecting violence to erupt.
Instead, Nobunaga turned and walked out of the hall.
He did not wait for permission.
The fallout was swift.
By evening, the castle buzzed with open hostility.
"He has crossed a line.""He invites divine retribution.""He makes us vulnerable."
Meetings formed and dissolved behind closed doors. Messengers moved quietly through back corridors. Old alliances were reexamined, and old resentments sharpened.
One name surfaced repeatedly.
Nobuyuki.
Younger.Gentler.Correct.
Everything Nobunaga was not.
"He would be acceptable," someone said."He can be guided," another agreed."He would restore order."
By nightfall, the idea had gained shape.
Nobunaga was informed indirectly.
Servants hesitated before entering his chambers. Guards avoided his eyes. A trusted attendant—one of the few who still spoke plainly—knelt and lowered his voice.
"They are speaking of your brother," he said.
Nobunaga nodded."I know."
"They mean to move quickly."
"Of course," Nobunaga replied. "Grief is most useful when fresh."
The attendant stared at him, unsure whether to be frightened or relieved.
"What will you do?" he asked.
Nobunaga stood.
He removed the mourning robe and set it aside.
"I will make them choose," he said.
The choice was forced the next morning.
Nobunaga arrived late to the council.
Deliberately.
He did not wear white.
He wore dark traveling clothes, practical and unadorned, the short blade at his waist visible. The contrast was unmistakable.
Conversations died as he entered.
"My lord," a senior retainer began stiffly, "this is a sacred—"
"Enough," Nobunaga said.
He walked to the center of the room.
"You believe I dishonor my father," he continued. "That I shame his memory."
He paused.
"Then say it."
No one spoke.
"You believe I threaten the order of Owari," he said. "That another should lead in my place."
Still silence.
Nobunaga smiled.
"You are cowards," he said calmly. "Because you would rather hide behind ritual than face a decision."
Murmurs broke out.
"You test us," someone shouted.
"Yes," Nobunaga replied. "I do."
He turned toward the men seated closest to the head of the hall.
"Choose," he said. "Now."
The room erupted.
Shouts overlapped. Accusations flew. Names were spoken openly for the first time. Nobuyuki's supporters found their voices, emboldened by the chaos.
And in that chaos, lines were drawn.
By midday, the castle was divided.
Guards at certain gates answered to Nobunaga. Others did not. Servants began carrying messages for one side or the other. Supplies were quietly redirected. Doors were barred—not against enemies outside, but against neighbors within.
No blades had been drawn.
None were needed.
This was a war by preparation.
Nobunaga stood on the upper walkway that evening, watching the courtyard below.
He felt no triumph.
Only inevitability.
Behind him, a voice spoke.
"You could have waited."
He turned.
A senior retainer—one who had not yet chosen.
"No," Nobunaga said. "Waiting would have chosen for me."
The man studied him carefully.
"You are prepared to burn Owari to rule it?"
Nobunaga looked back at the divided courtyard.
"I am prepared," he said, "to rule what remains."
That night, the fires burned low.
No one slept.
The heir who would not mourn had done more than dishonor the dead.
He had stripped away pretense.
And in doing so, he had forced the future into the open.