I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Chapter 801: Norihiro’s receives the news

The first report arrived shortly after dawn.

Norihiro was already awake.

He had slept little that night, though no one outside his inner circle would have known it. From the moment the servants entered his chambers, he carried himself with the same composed authority he always wore. His hair had been tied neatly behind him. His dark robes were immaculate. His expression was calm enough to make even the oldest servants lower their eyes and believe that nothing in the world could truly disturb him.

Yet the room around him told another story.

Letters lay open across the low table near the window. Some had been read once. Others had been read several times, their corners pressed flat beneath Norihiro’s fingers. A map of the South rested beside them, marked with small ink circles and lines that had not been there the day before.

Minami Kyoto stood at its center.

Kajiya Hara lay to the west.

And between them stretched the roads that could soon carry an army.

The servant who delivered the newest message remained kneeling near the door.

Norihiro read it in silence.

His eyes moved slowly across the parchment.

Then he set it down.

“Read it again,” he said.

The servant swallowed.

“My lord, a merchant traveling from the western road claims that he saw wagons leaving the Kajiya Hara Domain. They were heavily guarded and carrying what appeared to be weapons. Spears, swords, armor, and crates of arrowheads.”

Norihiro’s face did not change.

“And?”

“The merchant also said that he saw soldiers wearing red armor nearby. He could not give an exact number, but he believed there were many of them.”

“Many,” Norihiro repeated.

“Yes, my lord.”

“That is not a number.”

The servant immediately lowered his head further.

“No, my lord.”

Norihiro turned toward the window.

Outside, Minami Kyoto was beginning to wake. The first merchants were opening their shops. Smoke rose from kitchens and bathhouses. Workers carried baskets through the streets. Ordinary people were starting another morning without knowing that the world around them might be shifting toward war.

The city looked peaceful.

But Norihiro had learned long ago that peace was often only what people saw before someone decided to break it.

“Where is Kazuma?” he asked.

“He is on his way, my lord.”

Norihiro gave a faint nod.

The servant remained still, uncertain whether he had been dismissed.

Norihiro did not look back at him.

“Send word to Captain Jiro. I want the western gate reinforced. Double the guards on every road leading toward Kajiya Hara. Search all wagons entering the city, no matter who owns them.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And find the merchant who brought this report. I want to speak with him personally.”

The servant bowed deeply before hurrying away.

Once the doors closed, Norihiro stood alone beside the window.

His hand slowly moved toward the scar along his left palm.

It was an old wound.

Small enough that most people would never notice it.

Yet he felt it whenever danger came close.

A faint pulse of pain moved through the scar now.

Norihiro’s eyes narrowed.

Sadamasa.

The forge lord had always been weak. Proud in the way weak men often were, loud when protected by his walls, but easily shaken when confronted with someone stronger than himself. Norihiro had used him because Kajiya Hara’s weapons were useful, not because he respected the man.

Still, Sadamasa had been predictable.

Or so Norihiro had believed.

The sound of doors opening pulled him from his thoughts.

Kazuma entered first.

He was a thin man in his forties, dressed in formal robes of dark green. His face always seemed too calm, his expression always controlled, but Norihiro trusted him more than most. Kazuma had served at his side for years. He knew which officials could be bought, which merchants needed pressure, and which nobles would betray their allies if given enough reason.

Captain Jiro followed behind him.

Unlike Kazuma, Jiro looked born for war. He was broad shouldered and heavily built, with a scar crossing one side of his face. His armor had not been polished for ceremony. It had been worn, repaired, and worn again.

Both men bowed.

“My lord,” Kazuma said. “You sent for us.”

Norihiro gestured toward the letters on the table.

“Read them.”

Kazuma stepped forward and began examining the reports.

Jiro waited, silent but alert.

Kazuma’s face changed very little as he read, though Norihiro saw the smallest tightening around his eyes.

“Reports from three separate towns,” Kazuma said. “Weapons moving from Kajiya Hara. Red armored soldiers gathering near the western road. Food stores being bought in unusual quantities. And a rumor that the Urakami Clan has been called south.”

“Rumor,” Jiro muttered. “That could mean anything.”

“It could,” Norihiro said. “But the weapons are real.”

Kazuma glanced toward him.

“You believe Sadamasa has betrayed you.”

“I believe Sadamasa is frightened.”

“Of whom?”

Norihiro’s expression darkened.

“That is the question.”

For the last several weeks, too many things had changed.

Yorimasa was dead.

Morosuke was gone.

Mitsuhide was dead as well.

Three men who had ruled their lands through power, fear, and strength had fallen in such a short time that it could not be coincidence. The South had begun to whisper of a black ronin called Ryo, a wandering swordsman who had appeared from nowhere and struck down men others had feared for years.

Norihiro had heard the stories.

At first, he had dismissed most of them.

Rumors always grew larger than the truth. One dead guard became ten. A small battle became an army slaughtered. A skilled swordsman became a demon, then a god, then something impossible.

But Mitsuhide’s death had changed that.

Norihiro had known Mitsuhide was dangerous. He had known about the shrine in Death God Valley. He had known the man had been digging into powers better left forgotten.

And he had still died.

Norihiro had not been afraid.

Not yet.

But he had become careful.

“Do we send soldiers to Kajiya Hara?” Jiro asked.

Norihiro turned toward him.

“And do what?”

“Find out whether Sadamasa is moving against us.”

“If I send troops west now, Sadamasa will know I suspect him. If the Urakami Clan is truly involved, they will know as well.”

Jiro’s jaw tightened.

“Then we wait?”

“No.”

Norihiro returned to the map.

“We watch.”

Kazuma stepped closer to the table.

“My lord, if Urakami is gathering soldiers, then he may be acting under the Akamine Clan.”

“I know.”

“And if the Akamine Clan has secured Sadamasa’s weapons, then this is not merely a local dispute.”

“I know.”

Norihiro’s voice remained calm, but the words landed sharply enough to silence the room.

The Akamine Clan.

The name had become increasingly troublesome over the last year.

They pretended to stand for order. They claimed their strength protected the capital and preserved the old balance of Kastoria. But Norihiro knew what powerful samurai clans truly wanted.

Influence.

Land.

Control.

The South had always been useful to them, but difficult to claim openly. Its Daimyos held old authority. Its people distrusted the capital. Its distance from the northern center of power made it hard for outsiders to rule without resistance.

If the Akamine Clan could remove Norihiro, the strongest remaining Daimyo in the South, then the region would become far easier to control.

Norihiro looked down at Minami Kyoto’s mark on the map.

A slow smile touched his lips.

“So that is what they want.”

Kazuma watched him carefully.

“My lord?”

“They believe I will wait behind these walls until they gather an army large enough to crush me.”

Jiro’s eyes hardened. “Would they dare?”

“They would,” Norihiro replied. “And they will regret it.”

He turned toward Captain Jiro.

“Prepare three thousand men.”

Jiro’s eyes widened slightly.

“To march, my lord?”

“Not yet. They will remain ready.”

Norihiro’s gaze returned to Kazuma.

“Send our scouts west. Not soldiers. Scouts. Merchants, hunters, travelers, men who can move through towns without attracting attention. I want numbers. I want names. I want to know where Urakami’s men are sleeping, what they are eating, where they are getting their weapons, and whether Sadamasa has truly opened his forges to them.”

Kazuma bowed.

“At once.”

“And Kazuma.”

The adviser paused.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Find out who began these rumors.”

Kazuma looked back at him.

“Do you believe someone is trying to force our hand?”

Norihiro’s fingers rested on the map.

“I believe someone wants me to react.”

The room grew quieter.

Jiro glanced toward the letters.

“Who?”

Norihiro’s eyes became cold.

“Ryo.”

The name hung in the air.

Even Jiro, a man who had faced battle without fear, seemed to hesitate.

The black ronin had become more than a rumor by now.

He was a shadow cast across the South.

A man who appeared where powerful people believed themselves safe. A man who did not belong to any known clan, any known lord, or any obvious cause. No one knew where he had come from. No one knew who had trained him. Yet he had left enough death behind him that even men loyal to Norihiro had begun to speak his name carefully.

Kazuma lowered his gaze.

“If Ryo is involved, my lord, then perhaps he is working with the shinobi.”

“Perhaps.”

“The shinobi would want you dead.”

“Of course they would.”

Norihiro’s smile disappeared.

“They have wanted that for years.”

His hand closed over Minami Kyoto on the map.

“Let them come.”

Far beneath the castle, hidden behind locked corridors and doors that only a few people knew existed, something stirred.

The shrine had felt the change in the air.

It had felt the fear.

And it had begun to wake.

In a small roadside inn west of Minami Kyoto, Hanzo sat at a low table with a cup of tea untouched before her.

The building was crowded despite the early hour.

Merchants argued over the price of rice near the counter. Two farmers sat by the window, speaking in tense whispers. A group of travelers had taken over the largest table, their horses tied outside beneath the shade of a wooden awning.

Hanzo had arrived before sunrise with the two shinobi Genzo assigned to her.

They sat separately within the inn.

One had disguised himself as an old trader carrying cloth from a nearby village. The other sat near the entrance dressed as a tired traveler, his hat pulled low over his eyes. None of them looked at one another for too long.

They did not need to.

Hanzo’s attention remained on the men at the largest table.

They were dressed like merchants.

Their clothes were dusty. Their sandals were worn. Their voices were loud enough to sound natural.

But Hanzo had seen enough soldiers to recognize them.

The way they sat gave them away.

Their backs were too straight. Their hands stayed too close to their sides. Their eyes kept moving toward the doors and windows. Even their silence between conversations carried the alertness of trained men.

Norihiro’s scouts.

Just as Nathan predicted.

One of them lowered his voice, though not enough.

“I heard it from a blacksmith’s cousin,” he said. “Sadamasa has been forging weapons for the samurai for months.”

Another man snorted.

“Months? That cannot be true.”

“Why not?”

“Because if Sadamasa had been arming them for months, Norihiro would know.”

The first man took a drink.

“Maybe he does.”

The third scout looked uneasy.

“They say Urakami is moving soldiers closer to the western road.”

“How many?”

“No one knows. Some say two thousand. Others say more.”

Hanzo lowered her eyes to her tea.

The rumors had begun.

They were not spreading wildly yet.

They did not need to.

The scouts had heard exactly enough to return with questions.

That was all Nathan wanted.

One of the men looked toward the door.

“We should leave before noon.”

“Why?”

“The roads may become unsafe.”

The first man gave a harsh laugh.

“Unsafe because of samurai?”

“Unsafe because of war.”

Hanzo watched them rise a short time later.

They paid quickly and left the inn without looking back.

Only after they had mounted their horses and disappeared down the eastern road did Hanzo allow herself to breathe properly.

The disguised shinobi near the entrance stood and approached her table.

“They believed it,” he murmured.

Hanzo nodded.

“They believed enough.”

Outside, the road stretched toward Minami Kyoto.

Soon, the scouts would return to Norihiro with reports that were true, false, and impossible to sort apart.

And once they reached him, the Daimyo would begin moving.

°°°°

At the Shinobi Village, Nathan stood before the small training ground while the afternoon sun filtered through the branches above.

Several shinobi were practicing nearby, but his attention was elsewhere.

A messenger had just arrived.

Genzo read the report first, then handed it to Nathan.

“The first of Norihiro’s scouts have already heard the rumors,” Genzo said. “Hanzo confirmed it.”

Nathan read the message.

His expression remained calm.

“Good.”

Genzo studied him.

“You expected him to react quickly.”

“Norihiro does not like uncertainty.”

“And you do?”

Nathan folded the report and handed it back.

“No.”

That was the truth.

Every part of this plan depended on timing. If Norihiro waited too long, Urakami might move in a way Nathan could not control. If Urakami became suspicious, he might delay his army or call for greater support from the Akamine Clan. If the shinobi made one mistake, both sides could turn their attention toward the village.

There were too many pieces.

Too many people who could act differently from what Nathan expected.

But the first move had been made.

Now there was no turning back.

Yukihime approached from the path behind him.

Her eyes settled on Genzo, then Nathan.

“Is it starting?” she asked truly impatient to get over with.

The south was filled with memories she wanted to forget and the only way to forget them was to leave entirely the place.

Nathan looked toward the western horizon.

“Yes,” he said.

Far away, Norihiro was gathering his soldiers.

Urakami was waiting for weapons and glory.

Hanzo was moving through the roads where danger could find her at any moment.

And within Minami Kyoto, the last Daimyo of the South had begun to realize that enemies were closing around him.

Nathan’s hand rested against the hilt of Kyomei.

“The calm is over.”