The first skirmish of the succession war was not announced.
No banners were raised.No proclamations nailed to gates.No drums summoned men to glory.
It arrived disguised as routine.
A shipment of rice meant for the eastern garrisons failed to reach its destination. A patrol sent to investigate was delayed, then redirected. Orders issued in Nobuyuki's name contradicted those given in Nobunaga's. Each incident, taken alone, could be explained away.
Taken together, they formed a pattern.
Someone was testing lines.
Nobunaga understood immediately.
"They want to see if I will hesitate," he said.
He stood in the map room with a handful of men he trusted—not the most senior, not the most outspoken, but those who had already committed themselves by action rather than declaration.
A finger traced the eastern road.
"They believe I will avoid blood," one retainer said.
Nobunaga smiled faintly."They believe I will avoid responsibility."
He tapped the map once.
"We will not."
The village of Kiyosu lay at the edge of disputed influence.
Small.Unremarkable.
And therefore perfect.
Nobuyuki's supporters had begun to "protect" it—stationing men under the guise of maintaining order. Taxes were collected twice. Orders were deliberately made. The villagers kept their heads down and waited.
Nobunaga did not send an army.
He sent a message.
It was brief.Direct.
Kiyosu answers to me.
No seal.No threat.
The reply came at dusk.
It answers to the house.
That was enough.
The men Nobunaga chose were few.
Too few for war.Enough for intent.
They rode at night, armor muffled, torches unlit. Nobunaga rode with them—not at the center, but at the front.
No speeches were given.
None were needed.
When they reached the outskirts of Kiyosu, they did not charge.
They waited.
The first blood was drawn by accident.
A sentry—young, nervous—challenged them too loudly. Someone moved too quickly. A blade flashed in panic.
The sentry fell.
Silence followed.
Nobunaga dismounted and knelt beside the body.
Alive.
Barely.
He stood.
"Carry him inside," he ordered. "Let them see."
The confrontation that followed lasted less than an hour.
No formations.No heroic stands.
Just men realizing, too late, that they were not dealing with intimidation, but resolve.
Nobunaga did not seek to kill.
He sought to remove.
Weapons were broken.Commanders seized.Messengers intercepted.
When resistance faltered, he stopped.
The village was secured before dawn.
By morning, everyone knew.
Not because of the proclamation.
But because nothing resisted.
Nobuyuki's response was swift—and restrained.
He did not denounce his brother.He did not call for arms.
Instead, he condemned "lawlessness."
He mourned the injured sentry publicly.
He positioned himself as a protector.
The performance was effective.
For a moment.
The real shock came later that day.
A delegation from Kiyosu arrived at Nagoya Castle.
They did not kneel before Nobuyuki.
They knelt before Nobunaga.
Not in gratitude.
In fear.
"We wish only for one lord," the elder said. "Two bring ruin."
The message traveled faster than any rider.
Villages listened.
Retainers reconsidered.
The war that pretended not to be one had spoken.
That night, Nobunaga stood alone again on the walls.
Below, torches moved—careful, uncertain.
Behind him, a retainer spoke quietly.
"You have drawn blood."
"Yes," Nobunaga replied.
"Some will never forgive you."
Nobunaga nodded."They were never meant to."
Far across the compound, Nobuyuki listened to reports.
His jaw tightened.
"He rides with them," someone said."He does not hide."
Nobuyuki closed his eyes.
This was no longer about ritual.
Or correctness.
It was about momentum.
And momentum, once lost, did not return easily.
The first blood of Owari's inheritance war had been spilled.
Not enough to satisfy hatred.Enough to end uncertainty.
From this moment forward, no one would pretend this was not a war.
Only that it had not yet found its name.