The silence in the lord's hall was so absolute it felt like a physical weight. The crackling of the torches sounded like a roaring inferno. Jiro stared at Takeru, his weathered face a mask of profound disbelief.
"My lord," the old retainer finally managed, his voice strained. "That is not a plan. It is a death sentence. Fifty of us against five hundred? In their own camp? They would butcher us before we took ten steps."
Another elder, a bald man named Kenji whose arm was in a sling, nodded vigorously. "Jiro is right. It is a trick worthy of foxes and bandits, not warriors of the Akiyama. To attack men in their sleep… there is no honor in it."
Takeru listened to their protests, his expression calm. He had anticipated this. This was the clash between the rigid, honor-bound warfare of the 6th century and the pragmatic, objective-based strategy of the 21st.
"Honor is a luxury for the strong, Kenji-san," Takeru said, his voice quiet but cutting through their objections. "This morning, were we strong? Their honor did not stop them from attempting to wipe our clan from the face of the earth. Do not grant them a courtesy they would never afford us."
He turned his gaze to Jiro. "You call it a death sentence because you think of it as a battle. It is not. We are not there to fight an army. We are there to sever its head and burn its heart."
He knelt, using a sharpened stick to draw in the dirt map on the floor. His retainers instinctively gathered closer, their skepticism warring with a reluctant curiosity.
"The prisoner said their camp is by the river," Takeru began, drawing a wavy line. "They will have their horses tethered here, near the water." He drew a small square. "Their supply tents—food, spare weapons, arrows—will be centralized, likely here." He drew a larger square. "And the clan lord's tent, the largest and most decorated, will be in the center, the position of command." He marked it with an X.
"We will not enter as an army. We will enter as ghosts."
He looked up, his eyes meeting each of theirs. "I need fifty men. The quietest and quickest we have. We divide into three teams. Team One," he pointed to a grizzled hunter known for his stealth, "you take fifteen men. Your only task is the horses. You do not kill the guards unless you must. You cut the tethers. You create a stampede. Frightened horses will cause more chaos than any warrior."
The hunter's eyes widened as he grasped the logic.
"Team Two," Takeru gestured to Kenji, the wounded elder. "You cannot fight, but you can lead. Take twenty men. Your target is the supply depot. I want every sack of rice slashed, every water skin pierced, and most importantly, I want it set ablaze. Use torches and oil. A large fire will be our signal, and it will make them believe their entire camp is burning down."
Finally, he looked at Jiro. "You and I, Jiro, will take the remaining fifteen. The best we have. While the horses are running wild and the supply tent is burning, we have one objective." He tapped the X on the map. "Lord Izumo."
He let the audacity of it sink in. "We do not stay to fight. We move in, we strike our targets, and we melt back into the darkness. We make them believe the mountain spirits have followed them from the pass. In the ensuing panic, they are more likely to trample each other than to find us."
The sheer, cold logic of the plan was undeniable. It was terrifying, but it was not the mindless suicide mission they had first imagined.
"My lord," Jiro said, his voice thick with emotion. "The plan is… cunning. But you cannot go. You are the clan. We cannot risk you. Let me lead the strike on the command tent."
"No," Takeru said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The men believe I am touched by the kami. That illusion is our sharpest weapon. It shatters the moment I am seen cowering behind our walls while they march to their potential deaths. I will not send you to a fire I am unwilling to walk through myself."
That settled it. The argument was over.
An hour later, forty-nine men and one young lord gathered in the village square under a moonless sky. They were the fittest and quietest of the Akiyama's remaining warriors. Their faces were blackened with charcoal. Scraps of cloth were wrapped around their sandals and the hilts of their swords to muffle any sound. The mood was grim, silent, and electric with tension.
Takeru, his own face masked in shadow and his wounded shoulder tightly bound, moved among them, speaking in low whispers. He gave no grand speech, only simple, final instructions.
Then, as one, they slipped out of the village gate and into the deep woods, moving like specters through the night.
The march was a long, nerve-wracking ordeal. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig, sounded like a trumpet blast in the oppressive silence. Takeru felt the familiar churn of fear in his gut, but he encased it in a shell of cold resolve. He was the calm center, and his men drew strength from it.
After what felt like an eternity, they reached the crest of a wooded ridge overlooking the Ashida River. Takeru motioned for them to get down, and he, Jiro, and the other team leaders crawled the final few feet to the edge.
The sight below took their breath away.
It was exactly as the prisoner had said. A sprawling city of hundreds of campfires dotted the meadow, reflecting off the dark water of the river. The discordant sound of drunken singing, loud boasting, and laughter drifted up to them on the night breeze. They could clearly see the silhouettes of sentries, but they were lazy, leaning on their spears, their attention focused inward on the revelry, not outward into the dark unknown.
The Izumo clan was celebrating. Fat, happy, and blind. They were a perfect target, laid bare and vulnerable under the night sky.
Jiro looked at the sprawling camp, then at his young lord's calm, shadowed profile. The old warrior's fear began to recede, replaced by a chilling thrill.
Takeru scanned the scene, his eyes missing nothing, confirming the locations of the horse lines and the main tents. Everything was just as he had planned. He turned to his men, his voice a barely audible whisper that was sharper than any sword.
"They have no idea."