Chapter 190 - 130: Spit Out a Mouthful of Old Blood All Over the Face

Takeda Castle is pretty much like Hosokawa Castle, both are earthen and wooden fortresses built on hilltops, with arrow towers and watchtowers on the walls, surrounded by moats, and then a perimeter of villages and fields; the only difference is Hosokawa Castle was left half-finished and still isn’t completed to this day. Takeda Castle, on the other hand, is much more normal—at least everything that needed to be built was built. After landing, Harano headed straight for Takeda Castle, and even made a stop to raid the villages along the way. They didn’t set the troops loose to ransack and search, though, and the majority of villagers ran weeping and wailing into the wildlands and mountains—only a handful were caught and bound up. At this point, the Takeda Family finally realized there was an enemy invasion. Their villages were being attacked, and, coming from the sea to the west, their first assumption was that some foolhardy water thieves had landed, trying to make a grab. Troops immediately set out from Takeda Castle, gathering over a hundred men to rush up the road to meet the enemy head-on—at the very least, they couldn’t let the enemy run wild with destruction. They couldn’t afford to stay in the castle anyway—everyone’s dirt poor in these times, and if the enemy wandered about at will, destroying the villages and fields around Takeda Castle, they’d be left with nothing but bran to eat come harvest time, if that. But as they got closer and sent scouts, they realized the enemy likely weren’t just water thieves—their gear was suspiciously good, and there were more of them; but by the time they realized this, it was already too late. The enemy’s outer skirmishers had spotted them too, and not only did the enemy not rush into the villages for a big raid, they didn’t even need to regroup—the moment they found the Takeda troops, they charged at them without a flicker of hesitation, clearly itching for a fight. And so, the Takeda troops muddled into a battle and collapsed instantly, leaving thirty or forty corpses behind, losing another thirty-odd men in the chaos, and barely managing to break away and retreat back to Takeda Castle to hole up in defense. Harano, testing his blade on the softest fruit, didn’t show any mercy. He pressed the attack, chasing them all the way to Takeda Castle, but, wary of the complex village terrain and lacking any real siege capacity, he didn’t push all the way up to the gates. Instead, he stopped out of bow range, blockading the defenders inside the castle to prevent any ambushes on their rear as they transported the villagers. ...... Takeda Hyoeimon was a native of Chita County, head of the Takeda Family, aged fifty-two—a respectable old-timer for the era, with dodgy heart and blood vessels. Now, standing on the ramparts with a few household retainers and the clan’s Lang Faction, his pulse raced and slowed in turn, his temples throbbing, his head swimming in dizzy waves, his blood surging in discomfort. Dizziness was inevitable—he’d been sitting at home, disaster falling from the sky. A perfectly ordinary day, and suddenly a gang charges into his house, no questions asked, grabbing him and laying a savage beating—anyone’s temples would be pounding after that. He’d already taken his beating, hadn’t even figured out who the enemy was, and to make things worse, his eldest son, famed in Chita County for his valor, had gone missing when leading the sortie. He never made it back, dead or alive—leaving his not-so-wealthy household even deeper in trouble. Now he stood on the ramparts, carefully observing this inexplicable enemy, and the more he saw, the more alarmed he grew. They were clearly not ordinary—the front ranks bristled with black-lacquered iron armor, every man looked strong and well-fed, the image of elite Lang Faction infantry, and their inner tunics all seemed to be identical, solid black cloth with a unique cut—each suit tightly fitted, with narrow sleeves, even their trousers taken in, no longer the usual baggy wear of the past. Their hair was all cut the same way too. Right then, the enemy was resting—their iron-rimmed arrow-resistant array hats discarded. From afar, it looked like a crowd of bald men sitting together. Not one man had a topknot, but if you looked close, they did have a bit of hair left—just trimmed very short. They probably weren’t monk soldiers. Takeda Hyoeimon stared a while longer, still none the wiser about their identity, then noticed the enemy’s Lang Faction resting in neat ranks, weapons and hats at their sides, sitting cross-legged in armor, but absolutely nobody whispering, no one craning their neck, looking about or behind—despite the heat, not one loosened their armor for relief. Their posture was all cut from the same mold, even a group of meditating monks would seem livelier. Even just taking a drink from their bamboo canteens, they all waited for orders, perfectly in sync—a weird, eerie discipline that gave the viewer goosebumps. These Lang Faction didn’t seem quite human—none of the usual fidgets or quirks, and from afar, you’d think they didn’t even breathe... Takeda Hyoeimon felt a chill at heart, no longer daring to look too closely at these uncanny Lang Faction. He turned his gaze to the enemy’s Grand General behind the lines. The enemy Grand General was almost shabby—didn’t bother hanging cloth for a command tent, no fancy battle banner with a horse insignia, not even many samurai pages waiting on him. Compared to the resting Lang Faction, his only difference was the folding stool under his ass—he wasn’t sitting right on the ground, but as for majesty? Not much. But Hyoeimon didn’t dare underestimate this Grand General—the guy was massive, clad in head-to-toe black heavy armor like a giant. Even sitting on his stool, he was nearly as tall as Hyoeimon, one look and you could tell he was the kind of peerless tiger who could cleave his way from one end of a battlefield to the other—certainly not someone to take lightly. Hyoeimon himself barely cleared 1.4 meters tall; with Harano seated, they could go head to head and neither would come up short. Takeda Hyoeimon watched the enemy leader a while longer, then turned back, only to see the enemy Lang Faction still frozen at rest, not a twitch among them. He began to feel colder, dizzier—these were elite among elites, and if they finished resting and launched a full-force assault, with just his handful of battered survivors and the commoners they’d herded into the castle, he probably wouldn’t be able to hold them off—very likely, his family would be wiped out by sunset. He hurried to steady himself against the wall, waited for the dizziness to clear, clutched his chest and took two deep breaths, then pointed at the enemy’s back banners: "Hey—take a look at that—what family crest is it?" The enemy’s back banners were weird too—some carried "Cyan Gourd Banners," others had "Red Gourd Banners," but not in any consistent amount. Only a few had banners stuck into their armor, while most had no emblem at all. Maybe their outlandishly uniform clothing was enough to distinguish friend from foe—no need for extra insignia. Takeda Hyoeimon didn’t recognize the "Gourd Banners," nor did any of his senior retainers. None could figure out where this gang came from, so one retainer suggested, "Lord, let’s try talking to them!" The whole battle was a muddle, they didn’t even know the enemy’s name—the only way was to go ask. Hyoeimon had no better ideas, and immediately agreed: "All right, sorry to trouble you!" This household samurai wasn’t scared. Even in wartime, there were unspoken codes—diplomatic missions at least, if you kept your manners and didn’t ask for it, people rarely killed messengers. That kind of thing ruined your reputation. He rappelled down the wall with a rope and headed straight toward the enemy lines. The enemy didn’t give him any trouble—once he loudly announced himself as a messenger, someone came up and escorted him right through the ranks. Hyoeimon, watching amazed, saw that as his envoy passed through the lines, the resting Lang Faction barely spared him a sidelong glance—no one turned their head or joined in gossip, all as stiff as statues. Then the envoy met the enemy Grand General. The general’s demeanor seemed mild—no heavy-handed power play, just calmly sitting on his stool and talking things through. Before long, it was the envoy who got agitated, suddenly leaping from seiza and waving his hands as he yelled. At that, the general’s guards booted him onto the ground, dragged him out, and tossed him in front of the lines. Hyoeimon felt a little relieved—the enemy general wasn’t some crazed butcher, at least he followed basic protocol. Good news for now. When the household samurai envoy came back, crestfallen and covered in dirt, Hyoeimon hurriedly asked, "What happened?" The retainer quickly replied: "The enemy claims to be the Nozawa family of Wanjin—they’ve come to demand an explanation. They say we attacked their cargo ship." That was exactly what Harano had told him. The Owari clans intermarried constantly, their ties a tangled mess, and with so many villagers taken, there was no hiding it—sooner or later, his identity would leak. Better not to bother keeping it a secret—just say it outright, maybe save everyone the hassle of Takeda running around Owari spreading the news. "We attacked their cargo ship?" Hyoeimon was stunned, turning to his retainers, "Did we do any such thing?" The senior retainers all looked at each other and shook their heads in unison. The Takeda Family didn’t even own a boat—how were they supposed to attack the Nozawa cargo ship? Swim there? Even then, how would they reach it—they didn’t even know where Wanjin was! The envoy knew this too—this was pure nonsense. He quickly added: "I already explained all that, but they’re dead set on blaming us—they want us to hand over the culprit, or else they won’t give up." Takeda Hyoeimon felt another rush of discomfort in his chest, at a loss to understand any of this. He turned again: "Where the hell is Wanjin? Where are they from?" He’d never heard the name, didn’t think anywhere in Owari matched it, but his retainer was sharp, had already asked: "They say it’s on the coast south of Nagano Castle." South of Nagano Castle, on the coast? Chita Peninsula’s base? Near Atsuta Port? That would be right in the Oda Danjo Chonosuke’s core territory—so these people were from Oda Danjo Chonosuke’s house? Hyoeimon glanced back out of the castle and finally understood. Only Oda Danjo Chonosuke’s house could afford to equip their Lang Faction to this level. Plus, the enemy had dozens of iron cannons—probably part of that famed "Oda Iron Cannon Team" from before. Still, he couldn’t understand—why would Oda Nobunaga’s men cross the sea to attack him? Even if the Takeda Family had turned their back on the Oda Family, it was just because of circumstance. If the Oda Family could drive out the Imagawa family, he wouldn’t hesitate a second to come back—no need at all for Oda to single him out. No wonder they call Oda the Big Idiot—the rumors are true, he really does act like a madman... But there was no mistaking it now—the sides were enemies, no room for negotiation. If he bent to the Oda Family now, the Imagawa Family would be knocking tomorrow. He could only choke back his surging blood, slam a hand on the battlement, and growl, "In that case, we can only fight to the death. Whatever the Oda Family wants, we’ll knock a few of their teeth out first!" The senior retainers shouted in unison, preparing for a desperate fight. After all, there was nowhere left to retreat—at best, they could try to hurt the enemy so they’d give up on wiping out the Takeda. But they waited and waited, and never saw the enemy make siege engines—just sitting there, resting in neat ranks, occasionally taking turns to stretch. After another hour or so, a small incoming party appeared, spoke briefly with the enemy Grand General, and then a burst of bamboo whistles sounded. The enemy troops all stood, turned in formation, and marched off with perfect rhythm—just like that, they went back the way they’d come. Takeda Hyoeimon was even more baffled—didn’t they say they wouldn’t give up easily? What was that whole show about? Much later, word finally arrived—a small Takeda village closest to the sea had turned into a ghost village, its people vanished without a trace. Just like that, the Takeda strength was cut by 20%—out of all, they only ever had four villages and one castle. At last, he couldn’t help the blood boiling in his chest—he coughed up a mouthful of old blood, spraying it right in his retainer’s face. The world was spinning, half-fantasy, half-nightmare.