Chapter 1: Prologue

The veranda was gently filled with the mild warmth of spring sunlight, while a breeze rising from the sea carried a faint hint of salt, brushing softly against the cheeks before drifting away.

The wooden boards of the veranda held the warmth of the day, returning a faint, soothing heat each time they touched the back.

Upon it, Owada Takemaru lay on his back, doing nothing in particular, completely absorbed in the utterly unproductive yet strangely concentration-demanding task of picking his nose.

At length, he lifted the small result he had obtained and held it up toward the sky, narrowing his eyes.

“…If this were gold dust, life would surely be much easier.”

The words, spoken to no one in particular, were carried off by the wind and vanished beyond the persimmon tree in the garden.

From deep within the residence came the dry, rhythmic sounds of a maid handling utensils, while in the distance, the flow of the Ukedo River continued with a low, rumbling murmur.

This was Mutsu Province, in the district of Shineha under the control of the Soma clan.

It was a small domain facing the sea, situated near the mouth of the Ukedo River.

In later times, it would correspond to the Hamadori region on the Pacific side of Fukushima in Tohoku, around the Ukedo River in Namie, Futaba District, but such names did not yet exist.

No matter how the place names might change, the scent of the tide and the weight of the soil remained the same.

“Takemaru-dono, must you lie around like that again…?”

From beyond the corridor came the voice of his mother—Koto.

She was still young, a beautiful woman only in her mid-twenties, yet her tone carried an equal measure of exasperation and resignation.

Takemaru did not stir, merely opening one eye.

“Yes, yes, I am presently contemplating the future of the world.”

“A single reply will suffice. And besides, you are worrying in the wrong place. The world does not reside inside your nose.”

Her retort was merciless.

Takemaru gave a small laugh and closed his eyes once more.

He knew he was the heir of the Owada family.

But he also knew, just as well, that such a title would not change a single thing about the reality of this small domain.

Even including relatives, the population numbered only four or five hundred.

Sustained by the sea and mountains, they managed to avoid starvation, but it was far too small and distant to speak of ruling the land.

Suddenly, something stirred deep within his memory.

“By the way, Takemaru-dono, when you were born, in those tiny hands of yours…”

His mother’s voice always returned to that point.

Keeping his eyes closed, Takemaru gave a faint smile through his cleanly picked nose.

“Sweet potatoes and rice, correct? Yes, quite the dreamlike tale. In another time, I would surely have been hailed as a prodigy.”

It seemed that at the very moment he was born, he had been clutching something like sweet potatoes in one hand and rice in the other.

His parents and relatives had made a great fuss, calling it a miracle, the blessing of Buddha, and enshrined them carefully in the household altar.

But a miracle enshrined is still nothing more than an object before the passage of time.

By the time he was three, when he could finally understand words and move on his own, he took them in his hands and tried to plant them in the soil, but the answer had already been decided.

The sweet potatoes had dried completely, turning into light brown, mummified lumps that seemed ready to crumble at a touch.

There was no chance of sprouting.

As for the rice, it was even more hopeless.

It was neither unhusked rice nor brown rice, but polished white rice of all things.

‘What were they thinking, giving me something like this?’

Though he thought so with his childish mind, he still buried them in the soil.

There had been a faint hope, just in case.

But as expected, nothing happened.

The white rice remained white rice, and the soil remained soil.

In fact, the rice eventually rotted away and disappeared.

The “miracle” that had supposedly been buried there ended without changing form in the slightest.

That was Takemaru’s first disappointment.

Since then, his motivation had vanished somewhere.

For a while, he had dutifully cursed whatever it was that had sent him here—be it god or Buddha—but after seven years, even that had become a bother.

In the end, as a ten-year-old child, Takemaru settled into a life of lying around on the veranda all day.

Fortunately, as retainers of the Soma clan, while occasional skirmishes with neighboring Iwaki sent sparks flying, children who had not yet undergone their coming-of-age ceremony were not counted in war.

His parents worried about him to some extent, but since he himself avoided involvement, he had effectively become something close to a neglected child.

No, he had not been neglected.

He had chosen to be this way himself.

“…There is no position more carefree than this.”

Muttering to no one in particular, Takemaru closed his eyes once more.

The wind passed through, the sound of the river echoed faintly, and a day where nothing began and nothing changed quietly piled on.

And within that stillness, without anyone yet knowing, something had just barely begun to move.

Even so, his mother Koto did not relent.

“It was no dream. Certainly—at that time, you…”

Takemaru let out a small breath, as if to avoid hearing the rest.

“Then it is now but the remnants of a dream. Like an illusion, I suppose.”

Before she could continue, he slowly raised his body.

Resting his elbow on the veranda, he cast his gaze toward the garden.

All that lay there was an unchanging yard of grass and soil, with shadows swaying in the wind.

But Koto did not give up.

“Before even reaching one year of age, you spoke words. At two, you recited poetry and military strategy, counted numbers, and wrote characters. At that time, we believed Buddha had granted us a prodigy… and now…”

Her words continued, gradually changing in tone.

“You spend all day lying on the veranda… picking your nose… saying things like it would be nice if it turned into money…”

Eventually, her voice sank into lament, trembling faintly, and finally turning to tears.

It was the usual course of events.

Takemaru glanced at her from the corner of his eye and gave a slight shrug.

“Whoever that god may be, their work is rather sloppy. They could at least have given me unhusked rice.”

He spat the words out and leaned his back against the wooden boards once more.

The spring breeze passed through, and somewhere in the distance, the sound of water echoed softly.

An unchanging daily life continued quietly.

“Do not say such irreverent things.”

“I have already received punishment. See, just like this.”

Takemaru lightly tapped his own chest.

A ten-year-old body.

Untrained, never wielding a sword, the result of indulging in laziness as he pleased.

Rounded cheeks and a soft belly.

Yet only his eyes seemed far beyond his years.

Inside, he carried memories of having lived over fifty years.

Even so, those memories were far from perfect.

His knowledge of history was full of gaps, and he could name only a few notable figures.

Political struggles in the capital were distant matters beyond a haze, and even upon hearing the shogun’s name, he could only tilt his head in confusion.

‘Trying to aim for ruling the country in this situation is just impossible.’

He dismissed the thought internally.

Differences in population, economic power, and information.

In every aspect, the scale was entirely different.

“To issue commands to the capital from this land—it would not even make for a good joke. The difference in population is far too great. Five times, ten times… either way, impossible is impossible.”

Koto shook her head.

“I do not wish for anything so grand. It is enough if we can protect this land that has continued since our ancestors. …What will you do from here on?”

It was a quiet question, but there was nowhere to escape.

The spring sky was pale, and clouds drifted slowly.

Takemaru watched their movement for a while, then let out a breath and relaxed, sinking back onto the veranda.

“There is nothing in particular to be done. First I pick my nose, then I take a nap, and if I feel like it, I watch the river or the sea. And so the day ends—truly peaceful, is it not?”

Koto’s brows drew slightly together.

“Why speak like an old man…? Your future is only just beginning. Not only from nearby people, but even from the villagers, you are called a ‘lazy one’ and a ‘sluggard.’”

“It is a fine thing for my titles to increase. Lately, ‘fool’ and ‘idler’ have been added as well.”

With his eyes still closed, Takemaru continued in a somewhat amused tone.

“Someday it may reach the imperial court, and I might even be granted a rank. ‘The greatest sluggard under heaven’—it has quite a nice ring to it.”

Then, lowering his voice slightly, he added,

“…And if a rank is not possible, declaring it myself would be amusing. Not a Sengoku warlord—but a ‘Sengoku sluggard.’ That would suit me perfectly.”

At that remark, Koto stared blankly.

“…What is this ‘Sengoku’ you speak of? It is the era of Eisho now. Honestly, you…”

Her voice, mixed with exasperation and confusion, soon turned into a sigh.

Unable to continue, Koto shook her head and turned away.

Her footsteps receded down the corridor, and silence returned to the residence.

Takemaru remained with his eyes closed for a while, saying nothing.

‘…Ah, I see.’

Calling this era “Sengoku” was something that would come later.

He realized such an obvious fact only now.

But it was only for a moment, and his interest quickly faded.

‘Well, whatever.’

Letting the thought drift without telling anyone, he rolled his body slightly.

The warmth of the wooden boards felt pleasant against his back.

In the end, Takemaru once again lay there idly, doing nothing.

After a while, he let out a small breath.

“…Now then.”

Muttering to no one in particular, he flicked the small piece from his fingertip into the garden.

‘But in the end, if you can’t eat, it’s over.’

The thought was calm.

Not emotion, just a simple fact.

“It need not be gold dust. As long as the stomach is filled, that is enough. Even if it is not rice, millet, barnyard grass, or buckwheat… if you can eat, you win.”

His words were light.

But only deep within them did a faint weight remain.

Beneath half-closed eyelids, his gaze was directed far away.

Toward the sea.

The waves of the Pacific came and went in steady rhythm, appearing unchanged, yet surely carrying something along.

‘There is a way to manage, after all.’

Only that thought sank quietly.

Owada Takemaru, ten years old.

He did not possess the means to turn nose pickings into gold.

But he might, someday, find a way to fill his stomach.

The sunlight on the veranda was still high.

And the story had finally—just barely—begun to move.

Just barely.