In the final years of the Muromachi period, the realm crumbled. The imperial palaces in Kyoto were burned and rebuilt several times amid the flames of war, each reconstruction more shabby than the last. The decline of the imperial court was no recent affair. The jingling of jade pendants at the waist of court nobles grew increasingly faint; their once resplendent robes faded and became heavy with patches. What was even more lamentable was that upon the passing of Emperor Go-Nara, the court could not scrape together enough funds to perform the proper Buddhist rites for the late sovereign—an unimaginable thing in former times. In desperation, the palace chamberlain sold off a few surviving imperial utensils; the money and grain raised still fell short by half. In the end, the head priests of several great temples in Kyoto, mindful of the late emperor's sincere devotion, each offered a small donation, barely enough to carry out the rites.
The court nobles fared little better. Many once-prominent families—Ichijō, Nijō, Kujō—could no longer afford even their annual supply of rice tribute. They doffed their formal orikasa caps, changed into ordinary clothes, and left the capital to seek refuge with local lords they had known. Some went to the Mōri clan in the western provinces, others to the Hōjō in the east, and still others travelled as far as Kyushu to place themselves under the protection of the Shimazu or Ōtomo. There, they served as scribes, strategists, or simply as idle dependents—for the lords, after all, needed the prestige of these courtly lineages to add a measure of legitimacy to their tiny domains.
Meanwhile, Ashikaga Yoshiteru, the Seii Taishōgun who presided over the Muromachi Shogunate in Kyoto, fared little better. This shōgun of distinguished lineage had little of the martial vigor of his ancestor Ashikaga Takauji. The shogunate's authority waned daily. Powerful military governors (shugo-dai) in the capital region, such as the Hosokawa and Miyoshi, paid the shōgun no heed. Yoshiteru managed to scrape by selling off his collection of swords; sometimes he could not even pay his retainers' stipends. When the court held ceremonies, he would still send a little silver, meager though it was—a gesture of mutual aid between two impoverished relatives. Such was the bleak state of Kyoto in the late Muromachi.
On the fifth day of the ninth month of Kōji 3 (1551), Emperor Go-Nara passed away in the Seiryōden. The news shook the capital region. The various lords calculated in their hearts: the rise of a new emperor was a perfect opportunity to display loyalty and curry favor. On the twenty-seventh day of the tenth month, Prince Masahito ascended the throne as Emperor Ōgimachi. This new sovereign was dignified and handsome; though born into chaotic times, he still maintained the majesty of an emperor. Lords from across the land dispatched envoys to Kyoto, offering swords, horses, gold, silk, vying to show their devotion. Thanks to these contributions, the court managed to hold a decent enthronement ceremony—still shabby compared to times of peace, but enough to let the new emperor's splendor shine before the realm one last time.
The emperor, moved by their loyalty, bestowed rewards accordingly: those with office were promoted a rank; those without were granted the junior sixth rank, lower grade; some even leapt to become recipients of provincial titles (zuryō), acquiring the name of "Governor" of such-and-such province. For a time, imperial decrees flew thick and fast, scattering titles of kanrei, shugo, and zuryō across the land, as if the realm were still one where the emperor's word reigned supreme.
Amid all this turmoil, one figure stood out. That was the head of the Oda family of Owari Province—Oda Nobuhide.
Nobuhide was a man of magnificent stature, with thick eyebrows and large eyes, a short beard upon his chin, and a voice like a thunderclap. Though merely a shugo-dai (deputy military governor) over the four lower districts of Owari, he had long since ceased to heed his superiors, devoting all his energy to expanding his power. During the Tenbun era, Nobuhide led an army into Mino Province, aiming to capture Inabayama Castle, but failed; he suffered a defeat and retreated ignominiously back to Owari. Yet he was undaunted. Instead, he sent envoys to Kyoto to present an earnest petition to the court, saying that once his military fortunes improved, he would surely offer money and grain to demonstrate his loyalty. At that time, the court was distressed by its lack of funds; half-believing, half-doubting, it noted his words.
But Nobuhide proved as good as his word. In the following years, as his campaigns in Owari gradually turned favorable, he repeatedly dispatched men with heavy sums of gold to the capital. Those funds were used successively to repair the Shishinden, the Seiryōden, and various other halls and corridors of the imperial palace. The once-leaking roofs were replaced anew, the faded murals regilded, and the garden trees trimmed. The court, high and low, never ceased praising the loyalty of the Oda family, as if Nobuhide were the very model of a loyal retainer from the age of the Genpei War. In truth, Nobuhide understood well: this silver was not spent in vain. With the court's commendation, his standing in Owari became legitimately justified, and should he campaign against his enemies in the future, he would have more than a few respectable reasons.
Thus arose the Oda family's reputation for loyal service to the throne.
Revisiting the matter: after the Ōnin War (1467–1477), Japan entered the full-blown Warring States period. The shōgun became a decoration, the court a signboard; real power lay in the hands of the daimyō who wielded swords and spears. Owari Province was no exception. In those days, Oda敏定 (Oda Toshisada) had three great generals: Oda Inaba-no-kami, Oda Tōzaemon, and Oda Masatada. Each led his own clan and built castles in various parts of Owari. Nominally of the same Oda lineage, in reality each harbored his own ambitions.
And this Oda Masatada was none other than the father of the later world-famous Oda Nobunaga, namely Oda Nobuhide's alternative name. Nobuhide made his castle at Shobata, and wielded considerable influence over the four lower districts of Owari. As for the Oda clan's origin, they were descendants of the Fujiwara clan—in a sense, of court noble lineage. But in the chaotic age of warring states, lineage was far less important than actual power. Nobuhide's descendant, Nobunaga, would later, in order to command the realm, openly change his clan name to "Taira"—for the Minamoto had produced the shōgunal Ashikaga; if he wished to supplant them, he would need a separate house, and the Taira were the best choice. This ambition to change names and houses had already been planted early on.
Oda Nobunaga wished to unify Owari Province and bring all the Oda branches under his command. But easier said than done: Owari's eight districts were split into two main branches—the Iwakura Oda and the Kiyosu Oda—which constantly feuded and fought each other. While Nobuhide lived, he could just barely keep a lid on things; after his death, the situation boiled over like hot water thrown on snow.
On the twelfth day of the fifth month of Tenbun 3 (1534), a lusty cry rang out from the birthing room of Shobata Castle. Nobuhide's legitimate son was born, named Kippōshi—the future Oda Nobunaga. It is said that on the day of his birth, dark clouds churned above the castle and the distant sound of a tiger's roar came from afar—of course, these are invented embellishments of later generations. But one thing is true: this child was truly different from others.
From a young age, Nobunaga displayed a crude and unrestrained temperament, utterly unlike the children of ordinary samurai families. He disliked composing poetry or wearing formal clothes. Often with his sleeves wide open and barefoot, he would run wild through the castle. He gathered a band of boys his own age; all day they brawled, caught fish in the river, climbed trees to rob birds' nests—never a moment's peace. Nobuhide's retainers shook their heads upon seeing this: "How can the young lord ever inherit the family with such behavior?" But Nobuhide merely laughed heartily, saying, "This boy is like a wild horse. Once he knows where to run, no one will stop him."
Nobunaga also possessed an innate sense of superiority. He looked down upon everyone, even the old retainers he addressed by their personal names without a shred of deference. This attitude of despising the world would bring disaster in times of peace, but in the warring states where heroes vied for supremacy, it became the hallmark of a warlord. Some compared him to Xiangyu, the Hegemon-King of Western Chu from ancient China, who as a youth seeing the First Emperor of Qin on his grand progress declared, "I can take his place." Nobunaga never spoke those exact words, but his way of looking at people and his tone of voice conveyed the same meaning: "This realm will be mine soon enough."
As for studies, Nobunaga scoffed at the Four Books and Five Classics but loved military strategy and battle tactics. He thoroughly read the Six Secret Teachings and the Three Strategies, studied Sun Tzu's Art of War, and pestered the martial arts masters in his household to teach him swordsmanship, spearmanship, archery, and the newly introduced firearms (teppō). It is said that at the age of thirteen, he volunteered to lead troops, marching three hundred horsemen into Mikawa Province, setting fire to enemy villages along the way before riding off. When word returned to Shobata Castle, the retainers looked at each other in dismay—a mere youth of thirteen had already done such ruthless deeds. Nobuhide cursed him a few words, but in his heart he was secretly pleased.
In the twentieth year of Tenbun (1551), Oda Nobuhide fell gravely ill. This warrior who had dominated half of Owari for a lifetime finally collapsed upon his bed, his face the color of gold leaf, his breath faint. When his end was near, he summoned Nobunaga to his side, took his son's hand, and said a final sentence: "I leave Owari to you." Then he closed his eyes. He was forty-one years old.
The funeral was held at Banshō-ji. Nobunaga and his younger brother Nobuyuki carried out the arrangements together. Banshō-ji was the Oda family's temple; ancient trees reached to the sky, and moss-covered stone steps led to a quiet Buddha hall. Nobuhide's coffin was placed before the altar, where incense smoke coiled and Buddhist chants resounded ceaselessly. Nobuyuki knelt before the spirit, weeping as though he would dissolve, nearly fainting several times. Nobunaga, however, stood before the bier without a word, his face expressionless; at one point he rose, walked outside, scooped up a handful of ashes, cast them into the air, and said loudly, "He died at just the right time." When these words reached the retainers' ears, they were all shocked.
Thereafter Nobunaga inherited the family and became the new master of Shobata Castle. Yet he did not change his old habits: every day he practiced martial arts or rode horses, paying no heed to administrative affairs. The account books, land taxes, castle repairs, and correspondence with neighboring realms piled up untouched. When retainers came for instructions, he waved his hand, saying, "You decide these small matters yourselves." Then he would go back to wielding his sword and spear, or take his group of boon companions on a hunting expedition out of the castle.
Days passed, and the Oda family's foundation began to shake. The daimyō of neighboring provinces watched with covetous eyes, the internal disagreements grew increasingly severe, yet Nobunaga seemed oblivious.
In this critical hour, a loyal old retainer emerged—Hirate Masahide. He was past fifty, with a gaunt face, graying hair and beard, but his eyes remained sharp. A veteran of three reigns since Nobuhide's time, he excelled in both civil and military matters and had been deeply trusted by Nobuhide. Seeing the young master behave so foolishly, Hirate Masahide was consumed with anxiety. He remonstrated repeatedly, but Nobunaga ignored him as though it were the wind in his ears. Masahide consulted with other retainers; they all shook their heads and sighed, some even whispering, "Better to install Lord Nobuyuki as the heir."
Hirate Masahide pondered for a long time. He knew Nobunaga was no fool—quite the opposite, the young lord was exceptionally intelligent, but his temperament was like fire, unwilling to follow ordinary rules. Standard lectures were useless on him; an extraordinary measure was required.
One morning in the 22nd year of Tenbun (1553), Hirate Masahide committed seppuku in his own residence. He left a long testament, each word dripping with blood, enumerating Nobunaga's faults and urging him to reform thoroughly and revive the Oda family. At the end he wrote: "Your servant offers his death as a remonstrance, not for fame, but truly hoping that my lord will care for the realm. If my lord has a change of heart, your servant will die with no regrets."
Nobunaga, on hearing the news, galloped to Hirate Masahide's residence. He kicked open the door and saw the old retainer's body sitting upright and proper in a pool of blood, the abdominal wound shocking to behold, the testament spread out beside him. Nobunaga stood in front of the corpse, motionless, for a long time. Then he suddenly fell to both knees, touched his forehead to the tatami, and uttered a stifled sob. That sob was low and deep, like the wail of a trapped beast.
He picked up the testament and read it word by word. Then he stood, wiped away his tears, and turned away.
From that day on, Oda Nobunaga was like a different man. Every morning he would ascend to the council chamber to handle affairs, and at night he would inspect the castle defenses. He listened earnestly to his retainers' opinions, adjusted the collection of annual tribute, reorganized armaments, repaired castles. More importantly, he began consciously to win over people's hearts: rewarding loyal retainers, and balancing severity and favor toward those with hidden ambitions. Hirate Masahide's death had cut open his habitual muddled exterior like a sharp sword, revealing the true Oda Nobunaga within.
But a leopard cannot change its spots. Though Nobunaga began to attend diligently to government, the inherent arrogance and ferocity in his bones remained as before. Only the former brute force now gradually gained direction.
After taking over the family enterprise, Nobunaga first had to settle an old score. This was his grudge with Oda彦五郎 (Oda Hikogorō? Actually "Oda Hikogorō" but the text says "Oda Tanemaru"? Wait: The text says 织田彦五郎 — Oda Hikogorō? Or Oda Yasaburō? Usually it's Oda Tanemaru? But I'll keep as Oda Hikogorō, but better to check. The original says 织田彦五郎. Many sources: Oda Tanemaru is also known as Oda Hikogorō? I'll simply use "Oda Hikogorō" as a name. Alternatively, "Oda Tanemaru." I'll use "Oda Hikogorō" as per direct transliteration. However, I recall the lord of Kiyosu was Oda Tanemaru. The characters 彦五郎 can be read Hikogorō. So I'll use Oda Hikogorō.
Let's continue.) Oda Hikogorō was the head of the Kiyosu Oda branch. During Nobuhide's lifetime, they had clashed in battle. On the surface, Owari Province was of a single clan, but in reality it was divided into two factions: Nobuhide's faction, based at Shobata Castle in Ōno District, controlled most of the four lower districts; Hikogorō, based at Kiyosu Castle, had deep roots. The two families had fought openly and covertly for years, each winning and losing. Later, through the mediation of Hirate Masahide, they had reluctantly made peace and signed a non-aggression pact.
While Nobuhide lived, the pact held. Once Nobuhide died, the situation immediately changed. Hikogorō saw that Nobunaga was young and reckless, lacking the support of his retainers—a perfect opportunity to swallow Shobata Castle. He assembled his retainers for secret discussions and also sent word to the lords of Matsunoe Castle and Fukada Castle, forming a three-way alliance to jointly dispatch troops to encircle and annihilate Oda Nobunaga.
News soon reached Nobunaga's ears. Nobunaga laughed loudly upon receiving the report: "I wasn't going to bother him, but he comes knocking at my door first." He immediately summoned his uncle, Oda Nobumitsu, who was stationed at Moriyama Castle.
Nobumitsu was a steady middle-aged man with considerable prestige among the Oda clan. Hearing Nobunaga's plan, he thought for a moment and said, "Hikogorō is attacking from three sides. His forces outnumber us. A head-on battle will be difficult to win. Instead, we should strike first before he moves, attack him unprepared." Nobunaga nodded: "Just what I was thinking."
In the spring of the 21st year of Tenbun (1552), when Nobunaga was eighteen, the decisive battle began. Nobunaga, clad in armour and holding a spear, mounted his beloved horse and marshalled his troops at Shobata Castle. Behind him, two detachments filed out in three columns, their momentum magnificent.
The first column was led by Nobunaga himself, advancing straight toward Kiyosu Castle. The second column, commanded by Oda Nobumitsu, circled left to cut off the route of reinforcements from Matsunoe Castle. The third column, another fierce general under Nobunaga's command, circled right to monitor the direction of Fukada Castle.
All three columns set out at dawn. Morning mist lay over the plains of Owari; cooking smoke rose from distant villages, roosters crowed and dogs barked here and there. Nobunaga's troops moved silently along the narrow paths between rice paddies, the teppō teams bearing heavy matchlock guns trudging behind the cavalry.
Just as dawn broke, Nobunaga's vanguard had already reached a point five ri outside Kiyosu Castle. Everything had gone unexpectedly smoothly. In theory, reinforcements from Matsunoe and Fukada castles should already have been moving toward Kiyosu. But after sending scouts, Nobunaga was himself surprised by the news: on both Matsunoe and Fukada castles, white flags of surrender hung high; the castle gates stood wide open; the envoys of the lords were already waiting at the crossroads, holding surrender documents in both hands.
It turned out that these two lords, upon hearing that Oda Nobunaga was personally leading a large army against them, and learning that Nobumitsu's troops had cut off their retreat, were terrified. They had originally been persuaded to join by Hikogorō and had little resolve to fight to the death. Now, seeing the situation unfavorable, they simply defected and surrendered, hoping to preserve their territories.
Nobunaga accepted their surrender, sneered, and said, "A wise man adapts to circumstances. I will not kill your men. Tell your lords to defend their castles well and await my orders at any time." The envoys kowtowed repeatedly and hurried back in a state of panic.
Thus Kiyosu Castle became a completely isolated castle. Inside, Oda Hikogorō was alarmed when he heard the news. He convened his retainers at night to discuss countermeasures. Opinions varied: some said they should hold out for reinforcements, some said they should sally forth and fight a field battle, and some even hinted that surrender might be best. Hikogorō's face was ashen; he remained silent.
Nobunaga marched his army to the foot of Kiyosu Castle. The defenders on the castle walls drew their bows and aimed, on high alert. From horseback, Nobunaga looked up at the walls of Kiyosu Castle—the castle was tall, its moats deep, its garrison numerous; a direct assault would surely cause heavy casualties. He reined his horse and said to his retainers, "Withdraw for now. Return to Shobata Castle."
The retainers were perplexed: "My lord, Kiyosu Castle is isolated. If we don't attack now, when will we?"
Nobunaga glanced at them and said calmly, "There is an old fox like Hikogorō in that castle. He won't sit idly and wait to die. Once confusion arises among themselves, we can finish the job without haste."
Thus the Oda army receded like the tide, leaving behind only the traces of messy camp remains outside Kiyosu Castle. Hikogorō stood on the wall and watched the departing enemy. He breathed a sigh of relief but felt a faint chill in his heart—this eighteen-year-old youth was far harder to deal with than his father.
The atmosphere inside the castle grew increasingly eerie. Each retainer harboured his own thoughts; no one knew whether the person beside him might turn to Nobunaga the next moment. Grain and forage dwindled day by day; outside aid was cut off; deserters increased. Hikogorō fretted like an ant on a hot pan, pacing the castle all day but unable to come up with a breakthrough.
Just as the storm was about to break, an unexpected upheaval suddenly occurred inside Kiyosu Castle...