Mud dragged at Takeda Shōryū's boots.
Every step threatened to pull him down, to turn order into panic. He forced himself to move steadily instead.
Running shattered formations.
Formations kept men alive.
"Close ranks!" he shouted. "Yari forward—keep your spacing!"
The line wavered, then tightened.
Rain hammered down, blurring the battlefield into streaks of gray and red. Behind them, the enemy pressed harder, encouraged by numbers and momentum.
Shōryū's arms burned from holding his sword too long. His breath came faster than he liked.
He couldn't afford to push harder.
A spearman slipped in the mud ahead of him, armor clattering as he fell. The men nearest hesitated—just a heartbeat, but enough.
Shōryū lunged forward and grabbed the man by the back of his cuirass, hauling him upright with a grunt.
"Feet under you," he snapped. "You fall, the line slows."
The man nodded sharply and steadied himself.
They
kept moving.
Not because they trusted him.
But because his orders were clear.
Behind his eyes, something watched quietly.
"Command cohesion improving."
"Morale stabilizing."
An enemy ashigaru forced his way through the rear, blade raised high.
Shōryū reacted without thinking.
He stepped inside the swing instead of retreating, slamming his shoulder into the man's chest. Pain flared through his ribs as they collided. The world lurched.
Before the enemy could recover, a Takeda spearman thrust forward. The yari punched cleanly through cloth and flesh.
The body collapsed into the mud.
Shōryū staggered back, chest heaving, vision narrowing at the edges.
That had been too close.
"Tree line!" he shouted. "Three at a time—don't bunch!"
Ahead, a thin strip of trees cut across the slope. It wasn't defensible.
But it broke sightlines.
Enough to live.
The retreat continued in pulses.
Three men moved. Then three more.
No shouting. No blind charges.
The wounded were supported. The dead were left behind without ceremony.
It hurt.
But the line did not break.
An enemy horn sounded, sharp and confident. Shōryū felt pressure settle in his chest—not fear, but awareness. If panic took hold now, everyone died.
"Current trajectory acceptable."
"Projected losses reduced."
"Good," he muttered.
Rain softened their movement as they reached the trees. Branches and uneven ground slowed pursuit. The enemy hesitated, unwilling to chase into unfamiliar terrain for the sake of a minor skirmish.
The clash ended not with victory ,but with survival.
Shōryū leaned against a tree, rain washing blood from his armor. Around him, the remnants of his force regrouped—muddy, wounded, exhausted, but breathing.
He counted.
Too few.
But not nothing.
The presence behind his eyes stirred again.
"Mission evaluation in progress."
A translucent panel unfolded.
[Mission — Emergency]
Preserve the Host Domain
Status: Completed
Acceptable.
That meant alive.
Another panel followed.
[Rewards Granted]
• Loyalty increased
• Authority stabilized
• Retainer Summoning Authorization unlocked
A final line pulsed faintly.
Summoning Rank: Gold
Shōryū's breath slowed.
Gold rank.
For a domain that barely existed.
"There's a cost," he said quietly. "There's always a cost."
"Affirmative, Host."
"Summoning binds resources, authority, and fate."
"Delay is permitted."
He looked at the men gathering around him.
They watched him now—not with awe, not with fear—but expectation.
They were waiting to be told what came next.
"Gather the wounded," Shōryū said. "We move before nightfall. No fires. No stragglers."
They obeyed immediately.
As the column slipped deeper into the rain-soaked trees, Shōryū lingered for a heartbeat, fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword.
He did not summon.
Not yet.
But he could feel it—distant, heavy, patient.
A gold-ranked retainer, waiting beyond the edge of his awareness.
One step at a time, he thought.
I won't let it collapse again.
Behind him, unseen and unheard by anyone else, the system observed and waited.