In Tenshō 10 (1582), summer came unusually early. Before May had even ended, the mountains and fields of Ōmi were already loud with cicadas, and the hot wind, laden with the moisture of Lake Biwa, made the golden kinjikara (dolphin shaped ornaments) on the roof of Azuchi Castle's tenshu gleam brilliantly.
At that time, Oda Nobunaga's power had reached an unprecedented peak. From his first fame at Okehazama, through more than two decades of campaigns, he had swept away the Saitō of Mino, the Rokkaku of southern Ōmi, the Azai of northern Ōmi, the Asakura of Echizen, the Miyoshi of Settsu, the Matsunaga of Yamato… Takeda Katsuyori had killed himself on Mount Tenmoku the previous March, Uesugi Kenshin had died of illness long before, and now even Hongan ji had withdrawn from Ōsaka. Nobunaga's domain stretched from the fringes of Kyūshū to the entrance of the Kantō, controlling more than thirty provinces. He lived in Azuchi Castle, the greatest in the land, commanded hundreds of thousands of soldiers, and even the imperial court followed his lead.
Everyone believed that it was only a matter of time before Oda Nobunaga unified the realm. Though the Mōri in the west still resisted stubbornly, anyone could see that they were merely a candle flickering in the wind. Once Nobunaga personally led the campaign, the Chūgoku region would fall into his pocket like a ripe fruit, and Shikoku and Kyūshū would follow.
Yet beneath this seemingly unshakable hegemony, a crack was spreading silently.
At the centre of that crack stood a man named Akechi Mitsuhide.
In the fifth month of Tenshō 10, in the Chūgoku region.
Hashiba Hideyoshi had laid siege to Takamatsu Castle, held by Shimizu Munekatsu of the Mōri clan. The castle was built on a marsh, surrounded by water and hard to attack. Hideyoshi adopted a water strategy, building a long embankment around the castle and diverting the Mizutsu River into it. Takamatsu became a water castle; provisions were nearly exhausted, but Munekatsu still refused to surrender.
Hideyoshi, while confronting the main Mōri army, sent an urgent message to Azuchi Castle, requesting Nobunaga to personally lead the campaign. In his letter he wrote, "The Mōri main force has already assembled. Without my lord's personal command, a quick decision will be difficult."
When Nobunaga received the urgent message, far from being worried, he was delighted.
He had long wanted to lead the campaign against the Mōri. The Mōri had ruled the Chūgoku region for decades and were the greatest power in the west. If he could crush the Mōri in one blow, Shikoku and Kyūshū would fall into his lap. He immediately decided to lead the expedition in person and settle the matter once and for all.
"Issue the order: Akechi Mitsuhide, Hosokawa Tadaoki, Ikeda Nobuteru are the vanguard. Prepare to march at once." Nobunaga's voice echoed through the main hall of Azuchi Castle. "I will let Mōri Motonari—no, his grandson Terumoto—know what it means to be the true master of the realm."
The generals accepted their orders.
But at this critical moment, Tokugawa Ieyasu and Anayama Nobukimi arrived from Tōtōmi and Suruga to pay homage to Nobunaga at Azuchi Castle.
Tokugawa Ieyasu was Nobunaga's most steadfast ally, who had shared weal and woe with him for twenty years. Anayama Nobukimi was a former retainer of Takeda Katsuyori; after the fall of the Takeda, he had submitted to the Oda and, to show his loyalty, had come with Ieyasu to celebrate—Nobunaga had recently granted Anayama a portion of Suruga Province.
Nobunaga decided to receive them first, then go to war. He entrusted the task of reception to Akechi Mitsuhide.
"Mitsuhide," Nobunaga said casually from his seat, "Lord Ieyasu and Lord Anayama have come a long way. See to their entertainment on my behalf. It need not be lavish, but do not omit the proper courtesies."
Akechi Mitsuhide prostrated himself. "I obey my lord's command."
Mitsuhide was known for his meticulous attention to detail. After receiving the order, he threw himself into the work. He sent men to the antique dealers of Kyoto and Sakai to collect rare treasures—tea utensils from Ming China, famous paintings, incense utensils, swords, textiles. He also sent letters to the great temples and shrines of Nara, hoping they might contribute some precious items to add splendour to the occasion.
For this reception, Mitsuhide gave almost everything he had. He personally oversaw every dish on the menu, every kind of sake, the placement of every utensil. He even arranged a Noh performance in the garden of Nijō Shin'ei, hiring the most famous actors in Kyoto.
But just as he was working himself ragged, Nobunaga suddenly issued a new order: cancel the reception.
"The campaign is at hand; military affairs take priority," said Nobunaga's messenger. "Lord Nobunaga himself will receive Lord Ieyasu and Lord Anayama. Lord Mitsuhide need no longer trouble himself with these arrangements. Return immediately to Tanba Province and prepare your troops for war."
When Mitsuhide received this order, he was inspecting the ingredients in the kitchen of Nijō Shin'ei. His hand paused slightly, and his smile froze for a moment before quickly returning to normal.
"I obey my lord's command," he said to the messenger.
After the messenger left, Mitsuhide stood alone in the empty kitchen for a long time.
For this reception, how much effort had he invested, how much money had he spent, how many obligations had he incurred—and now Nobunaga, with a light "need no longer trouble himself," had reduced it all to nothing.
He remembered the tone of Nobunaga's earlier words: "Mitsuhide, it need not be lavish." That condescending, offhand manner, as if all of Mitsuhide's efforts were simply taken for granted.
Mitsuhide shook his head and suppressed this flash of displeasure. He returned to his castle at Kameyama in Tanba Province and began preparing his troops.
On the first day of the sixth month of Tenshō 10, Oda Nobunaga set out from Azuchi Castle for Kyoto.
He took only a few attendants. In his view, the realm was already nearly his; Kyoto was his backyard garden, and there was no need for a great display of force. He brought perhaps a few dozen retainers and a hundred or so guards, and lodged himself at Honnō ji temple in Kyoto.
Honnō ji was located in the busy part of the city, a small but ancient and famous temple. Nobunaga always liked to stay there when he came to Kyoto. It was not as solemn as the Imperial Palace, nor as tightly guarded as Nijō Shin'ei; it had a homelike comfort.
That evening, Tokugawa Ieyasu and Anayama Nobukimi also arrived in Kyoto and lodged nearby. Nobunaga held a feast for them at the temple, and the conversation was lively and genial. Nobunaga drank a good deal of sake, recalled the perils of the Battle of Okehazama, and laughed heartily.
"Imagawa Yoshimoto had forty thousand men, and I only three thousand," Nobunaga said, holding his cup, his cheeks flushed. "Do you know what I did? I danced at the front line. I danced Atsumori's dance!"
Tokugawa Ieyasu smiled and nodded, saying nothing. He was always the same calm figure.
Anayama Nobukimi feigned surprise and admiration at all the right moments, marvelling at Nobunaga's heroic spirit.
After the feast broke up, Nobunaga asked his eldest son Nobutada to stay behind, and the father and son talked for a while.
Nobutada was twenty six years old, already the openly acknowledged heir of the Oda clan. He ruled Gifu Castle, commanded several eastern provinces, and was young, capable, and deeply respected by the retainers. Nobunaga had great hopes for this son and often praised him openly.
That night, flushed with sake, Nobunaga told his son many stories of the past—being called "the fool" in his boyhood days at Furuno Castle, the dangers of fighting his younger brother Nobuyuki for family leadership, the storm at Okehazama, the sky high flames when Mount Hiei was burned. He spoke with emotion, and Nobutada listened earnestly.
"Nobutada," Nobunaga said, clapping his son's shoulder, his eyes deep, "the realm is almost in our hands. Remember: winning the realm is hard, but holding it is even harder. I have killed too many people and made too many enemies. When you come to rule, learn from my skill at war, not from my way of living."
Nobutada prostrated himself and knocked his head on the floor. "Father's instructions are engraved in my heart."
It grew late; Nobunaga felt tired and sent Nobutada away. He himself took off his armour, put on a white under robe, and lay down on the tatami in his sleeping quarters.
Outside the window, the June night in Kyoto was warm and tranquil. Insects chirred, and the distant sound of the Gion Festival bells drifted on the air. Nobunaga soon fell fast asleep, his breathing even, like an ordinary traveller.
He slept soundly. He did not know that he would never see another sunrise.
At Kameyama Castle, Akechi Mitsuhide did not sleep all night.
On the evening of the first day of the sixth month, he convened all his direct retainers for a secret meeting in the hall of the main bailey. Doors and windows were shut tight; the lamplight was weak. Mitsuhide sat at the head, his face ashen, his gaze fiery.
"I have called you all here to announce something." Mitsuhide's voice was hoarse and low, like a stretched string.
The generals looked at one another, not knowing why their lord was so grave.
Mitsuhide was silent for a moment, then slowly spoke: "I, Akechi Mitsuhide… intend to strike against Oda Nobunaga."
The hall fell dead silent.
Everyone believed they were dreaming. Some rubbed their eyes, some pinched their legs, some opened their mouths but could not close them.
The first to react was his son in law, Akechi Hidemitsu (Mitsuharu? The text says Mitsuhide's son in law, "Mitsumitsu Hidemitsu" – likely Akechi Hidemitsu, also known as Mitsuharu). He was Mitsuhide's most trusted general and a firm supporter of the coup. He stood up, clasped his hands, and said, "Whatever our lord decides, Hidemitsu will follow him to the death."
That was what Mitsuhide needed.
He looked around the room, his gaze like a knife, and said distinctly: "Oda Nobunaga has shown no reverence for the gods, no respect for the court; he burned Mount Hiei, massacred the people, murdered the shōgun, humiliated the young, seized the wives and daughters of others, and occupied their lands. The realm has suffered under Nobunaga for too long! Heaven entrusts me with his punishment—this opportunity must not be lost."
He paused and added, "If any of you do not wish to follow me, you may leave now. I will not stop you."
No one left.
Not because they all wanted to follow, but because they knew—knowing this secret, if they did not follow, they would die.
That night, Akechi Mitsuhide gave the order: all thirteen thousand troops were to arm and march.
But his troops should have headed west—west to Bizen and Bitchū, to the battlefield where Hideyoshi was confronting the Mōri. Yet after leaving Kameyama Castle, the force turned east and sped toward Kyoto.
The soldiers were puzzled. Murmuring began, voices rose in question. The commotion in the ranks grew louder, threatening to get out of control.
Akechi Mitsuhide rode in the middle of the column, his face like iron. He raised his riding crop and shouted to the men: "We are acting on my lord's orders to proceed to Kyoto for a review by Lord Nobunaga! No doubts! Anyone who disobeys will be put to death!"
The word "review" temporarily suppressed the soldiers' doubts. Yet many still wondered—did a review require thirteen thousand men? In full armour? In the dead of night?
But an order was an order. The soldiers said no more and silently quickened their pace.
The column passed through Yamazaki, crossed the Kamo River, and pressed east. The sky began to grow light in the east. The outline of Kyoto was already visible in the morning mist.
In the early morning of the second day of the sixth month of Tenshō 10, Honnō ji lay in the summer dawn. The monks had already risen for their morning devotions; the sounds of wooden fish and sutra chanting echoed through the temple grounds. Oda Nobunaga's attendants were also rising one by one to prepare their lord's washing and breakfast. Everything was so ordinary, so peaceful, like countless previous mornings.
No one noticed that the temple was already surrounded by rank upon rank of soldiers.
Akechi Mitsuhide sat on his horse, standing on a narrow lane east of Honnō ji. Behind him stood thirteen thousand fully armed soldiers, their spears and swords like a forest, their arquebuses ready. He gazed at the black roof of Honnō ji and drew a deep breath.
"Attack." His voice was so soft it was almost scattered by the morning breeze.
But those two words were like a boulder dropped into a pond, sending up mountainous waves.
First came the sound of arquebuses. Lead balls rained down on the great gate and walls of Honnō ji; wood splintered, doors shattered. Then, shouting from every direction, thousands of soldiers poured into the temple precincts, their blades flashing like snow.
The monks of Honnō ji ran for their lives, their cries filling the air. Oda Nobunaga's attendants, roused from sleep, rushed into the courtyard half dressed; some could not even draw their swords before being cut down. Though they were battle hardened samurai, they were far too few—barely more than a hundred men against ten thousand enemies. It was like a mantis trying to stop a chariot.
Mōri Ranmaru, Nobunaga's closest page, was only eighteen but skilled in arms. The moment he heard the arquebus fire, he ran to Nobunaga's bedchamber.
"My lord! Enemy attack! It is Akechi Mitsuhide—he has rebelled!"
Nobunaga's eyes snapped open.
He sat up and listened. The courtyard was filled with shouting, arquebus shots, screams, and the clash of swords—it was like a symphony of hell. He even heard one of Mitsuhide's commanders shouting in the courtyard: "The enemy is at Honnō ji! Do not let Oda Nobunaga escape!"
For a moment, Nobunaga was stunned—he had never imagined that Akechi Mitsuhide would betray him.
But the shock lasted only a moment. Then fury erupted like a volcano.
"Mitsuhide? Mitsuhide?!" Nobunaga grabbed the tachi hanging on the wall, jumped up barefoot, and cried, "That ungrateful beast! I treated him well, yet he dares betray me!"
But he was still Oda Nobunaga; even in his rage he did not lose his judgment. He peered through a crack in the door—the courtyard was filled with Akechi banners; the black on white bellflower crest of the Akechi stood out sharply in the morning light. Everywhere he looked, enemies, thick as ants.
His own attendants were fighting desperately in the courtyard, but the numbers were hopelessly uneven. One, two, three… men kept falling.
Nobunaga gritted his teeth and reached for his bow.
He stood on the veranda, naked to the waist, drew the bow, and shot arrow after arrow at the enemy pouring into the courtyard. He was an excellent archer, and at this moment of life or death, his aim was uncanny—every arrow found its mark, piercing throats or faces; the victims screamed and fell.
Mōri Ranmaru and his younger brothers, Mōri Rikimaru and Mōri Bōmaru, stayed by Nobunaga's side, defending him with their lives. Ranmaru wielded a long spear, dashing left and right, covered in blood, already wounded several times, but still refusing to fall.
Nobunaga shot his last arrow, threw aside his bow, and drew his tachi. Barefoot on the wooden floor, he trod on a slippery mix of blood and dew (the ground damp from morning moisture).
But the enemy were too many.
They poured in like a tide, one wave after another. One by one, Nobunaga's attendants fell until only a handful remained.
Mōri Ranmaru took a final blow in front of Nobunaga and collapsed into a pool of blood. He fell facing the enemy, still clutching his broken spear in his hands.
Nobunaga watched his beloved page fall, his eyes reddening.
He backed into the chamber, into the innermost room. The sound of battle came from all sides; the flames drew nearer. There were no living attendants left beside him.
Quietly, Nobunaga lit a candle and set fire to the tatami, the scrolls, the hangings. The flames spread quickly; thick smoke filled the room.
Sitting cross legged in the fire, facing west, he closed his eyes.
It is said that in his final moment, he softly chanted the Atsumori dance—
"Fifty years of life,
Compared to heaven and earth,
Are but a dream, an illusion.
Once born,
How can anyone avoid death?"
The same song he had chanted on the battlefield at Okehazama now became his death poem.
The fire devoured everything.
Oda Nobunaga, the most brilliant warlord of the Warring States period, vanished into the smoke and flames of Honnō ji. He was forty nine years old.
In the early morning of the second day of the sixth month, the great fire at Honnō ji lit up half the sky over Kyoto.
Akechi Mitsuhide's soldiers sealed all the gates of Kyoto and searched the city for Oda Nobunaga's supporters. Carrying lists, they went from house to house, killing anyone who seemed suspicious. Panic seized the capital; every household shut its doors, and the streets were empty.
Oda Nobutada was staying at Myōkaku ji, not far from Honnō ji. Hearing the commotion, he immediately sent men to investigate. Soon, a blood soaked fugitive came back with the report: Akechi Mitsuhide had rebelled; Honnō ji had been stormed, and Lord Nobunaga's fate was unknown.
Nobutada's mind went blank; he nearly collapsed.
His retainers urged him to flee at once to Azuchi Castle and gather a large army to punish Mitsuhide. But Nobutada shook his head. "Father… Father…"
His eyes reddened, but he did not weep. He gritted his teeth and made a decision—to move to Nijō Shin'ei.
Nijō Shin'ei was the strong castle that Nobunaga had built in Kyoto, far better defended than Myōkaku ji. Nobutada, with his remaining few dozen guards, fought his way through to Nijō Shin'ei.
There he found some former retainers of Shōgun Ashikaga Yoshiaki and a few surviving Oda samurai. They hastily organised a defence, hoping to hold out for reinforcements.
But Akechi Mitsuhide did not give him the chance. Learning that Nobutada was at Nijō Shin'ei, Mitsuhide immediately sent a large force to surround it.
The attack lasted several hours. The Akechi arquebusiers fired in volleys; one by one, the defenders on the walls fell. Nobutada had fewer and fewer men, and their ammunition was nearly exhausted.
Someone suggested that Nobutada shave his head and disguise himself as a monk to escape. Nobutada shook his head and gave a bitter smile. "Father has already gone. What meaning would my life have?"
He knelt in the main hall of Nijō Shin'ei, opened his robe, and bared his belly. His face showed no fear, only a deep weariness. He was only twenty six, in the prime of life, yet here he was, about to end his life.
He pressed the short sword to his belly and took one last look out the window. Outside, the sky over Kyoto held a few white clouds, drifting contentedly, as if the hell unfolding below had nothing to do with them.
Nobutada closed his eyes.
The blade cut.
Blood spattered.
Oda Nobutada, the young heir of the Oda clan, followed his father into death in Akechi Mitsuhide's rebellion. He was twenty six years old.
News of the Honnō ji Incident spread like a thunderclap across Japan in a matter of days.
Everyone was stunned.
No one had imagined that the invincible Oda Nobunaga would fall at the hands of one of his own retainers, so suddenly and so miserably.
Hashiba Hideyoshi, who was at that time confronting the Mōri at Takamatsu Castle in Bitchū, received the news, quickly made peace with the Mōri, and then led his army back at astonishing speed—the "Chūgoku Great Return" (Chūgoku Ōgaeshi)—covering two hundred kilometres in five days. He then defeated Akechi Mitsuhide at the Battle of Yamazaki.
Akechi Mitsuhide was killed by villagers while fleeing, and his "three day rule" became a historical joke.
Hideyoshi later carried on Nobunaga's ambition and ultimately unified the realm, becoming Kanpaku and Daijō daijin and founding the Toyotomi government.
Tokugawa Ieyasu hurried back from Sakai to Mikawa, rallied his old retainers, and after Hideyoshi's death won the Battle of Sekigahara and the Siege of Ōsaka, eventually establishing the Tokugawa shogunate.
All that came later.
Oda Nobunaga was dead. He died on the eve of unifying the realm.
His Azuchi Castle was later burned. His hegemony, like a cherry blossom, fell at the very height of its bloom.
But the legacy he left—an invincible army, an effective administrative system, the dream of "subduing the realm by force"—was inherited by his successors and eventually brought about three hundred years of peace.
The great fire at Honnō ji burned for a full day and night.
The next day, some charred bones were found in the ruins, but no one could identify which fragments might be Nobunaga's. He was like a shooting star streaking across the night sky of the Warring States, leaving behind a brilliant streak—and then vanishing into the darkness.
Some say Oda Nobunaga was a demon.
Others say he was a hero.
But whether demon or hero, his time was over.
And a new era was about to begin.