The march began at dawn.

  They moved like ghosts—silent, swift, organized. The villagers were no longer farmers and blacksmiths. Under Kazuki’s eye, they had become an army.

  Improvised spears, repurposed tools, and stolen armour from the last skirmish—none of it matched, but it didn’t matter. Their eyes had changed. They believed.

  Kazuki rode at the front, astride a battered old warhorse they'd found half-dead in a stable. Mira walked beside him; her bow slung across her back.

  “Kurohime’s a fortress, not a village,” she said. “Walls ten men high. Steel gates. Archers on every tower.”

  “I know,” Kazuki replied.

  “Then why are we going?”

  “Because they think they’re untouchable.”

  “They are.”

  Kazuki turned slightly, a wry smile on his face.

  “So was Rome. So was the mainland back home. Fortresses don’t fall to strength. They fall to mistakes.”

  She frowned.

  “What kind of mistake are we hoping for?”

  “The one we make them commit.”

  By midday, scouts returned with news.

  Kurohime had doubled its garrison. Eighty soldiers now. Lord Yorinaga himself was inside—fourth son of the Eastern Duke, and cruel even by noble standards.

  Kazuki gathered his lieutenants around a crude table of stones and dirt. He drew the layout with a stick.

  “We don’t take Kurohime head-on. That’s suicide.”

  “Then what?” Toma asked.

  “We take the river.”

  Everyone leaned in.

  Kazuki pointed to the rear of the fortress, where a narrow stream flowed beneath the walls.

  “It’s the weak point. We dam the flow, poison what’s left, and choke their water supply. They’ll panic.”

  “Won’t they just ride out and crush us?” Mira asked.

  “That’s what I’m counting on.”

  Three nights later, the trap was set.

  The dam had been built with logs and tar, reinforced with stone. Upstream, Kazuki had villagers dumping ash, spoiled meat, and rotting herbs into the slowing water.

  Inside the fortress, the soldiers had already started falling ill.

  Kazuki watched from the treeline, spyglass in hand. Lord Yorinaga emerged onto the wall, flanked by two standard bearers and a bodyguard in full black steel plate.

  “There he is,” Kazuki muttered.

  “That’s a real noble,” Mira said. “You ever fought one?”

  “Not in this world.”

  “And the next step?”

  “We make him furious.”

  That night, Kazuki sent a gift.

  Wrapped in silk, delivered by a chained messenger boy, it arrived at Kurohime’s gates just after midnight.

  Inside was the severed hand of Roh—the captured knight—still wearing his lord’s signet ring. A note was stitched into the flesh.

  “You sent a hound. We’re sending it back.”

  By morning, Yorinaga’s gates burst open.

  A full column of riders thundered from the fortress, hungry for blood. No formation, no caution—just fury.

  Kazuki stood at the crest of the hill, wind in his hair.

  “Wait for it,” he whispered.

  Below, the road curved sharply near a corpse of trees. Just past that curve—ropes stretched tight between hidden stakes, and fire traps waiting in brush.

  The first wave hit the rope at full gallop.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Horses screamed. Riders flipped. Chaos erupted.

  Then came the oil. Buckets hurled from above.

  Then the fire.

  A wall of flame engulfed the road, boxing in the second wave. The forest lit up like a funeral pyre. Archers rained fire from the cliffs. Screams filled the valley.

  Kazuki watched without blinking.

  “They always charge first when they’re angry. That’s when they’re weakest.”

  By sunset, Kazuki’s forces had surrounded the fortress from the rear. With the garrison gutted, only fifty remained inside—and they were sick, afraid, and leaderless.

  Because Lord Yorinaga?

  He was captured.

  Found tangled beneath a dying warhorse, his armour broken, dragged to the centre of Kazuki’s camp.

  The noble was young—maybe twenty—and soft-skinned. A boy dressed like a god.

  Kazuki crouched beside him, his bloody sword resting on his knee.

  “You’re Yorinaga?”

  “I am the blood of Duke Tenma—”

  Kazuki punched him once, clean across the jaw.

  “You’re a child in your father’s clothes. Do you know what you’ve done?”

  Yorinaga spat blood.

  “Kill me, peasant. I’ll return with a legion next time.”

  Kazuki leaned in, voice low.

  “No. You’ll live. You’ll walk back to your family. And when they ask what happened…”

  He grabbed the noble by the collar, dragged him toward the burning battlefield.

  “You’ll tell them the earth rebelled. That you saw fire where water used to be. That the ghosts of the mountain walk again.”

  He let go.

  “And tell your father: Kurohime belongs to the Ghost General now.”

  They entered the fortress without resistance.

  Kazuki walked through the front gates, head high, flanked by his troops. Archers stood down. Civilians bowed or hid. The fortress was his.

  Mira whistled.

  “We really took it.”

  Kazuki nodded.

  “Now we fortify it.”

  “You think they’ll come back?”

  “Definitely. And they’ll bring more than eighty next time.”

  He looked over the walls, eyes sharp.

  “Let them come. We’re not a rebellion anymore.”

  “Then what are we?”

  Kazuki turned; face lit by firelight. “A rising.”

  Yorinaga’s bindings were ceremonial—ropes soaked in black dye, etched with symbols by the village priest.

  A statement.

  Not just a prisoner—a sacrifice.

  They tied him to the old war banner, now raised upside down in Kazuki’s camp.

  Mira watched silently as Kazuki cleaned his blade.

  “You’re not like them,” she said. “The ones who burn villages and call it justice.”

  “No,” Kazuki said, never looking up. “But I’ve read enough history to know mercy is a currency. And I can’t afford to spend it yet.”

  She stepped closer.

  “So what do we do with him?”

  Kazuki sheathed the blade and walked over to Yorinaga, who was still struggling against the ropes despite the blood loss.

  “You’re lucky,” Kazuki said calmly. “If you were a common soldier, you’d be ashes by now.”

  Yorinaga glared up, face twisted with loathing.

  “You won’t get away with this. My father—”

  “Will send an army,” Kazuki finished for him. “Yes, I’m counting on it. But by then, Kurohime will be more than a prize—it’ll be a message.”

  He pulled something from his belt: a battered journal with torn pages and diagrams.

  “What is that?” Yorinaga sneered.

  “Plans,” Kazuki replied. “Defense blueprints. From a world ten thousand years ahead of yours.”

  Yorinaga blinked.

  Kazuki crouched next to him again, voice lower.

  “You nobles fight with swords and superstition. I fight with logistics. Morale. Infrastructure. You were never trained to win a war—you were trained to inherit one.”

  The noble prince tried to spit, but Kazuki’s hand was faster. He shoved a cloth into Yorinaga’s mouth and stood.

  “Tie him to a horse. Let him go east. Let the Duke see what’s left of his legacy.”

  “You’re just letting him go?” Mira asked.

  “He’s already defeated. His pain is worth more than his death.”

  Back in Kurohime, the villagers worked tirelessly under Kazuki’s orders. Gates reinforced. Archery slots widened. The river redirected into cisterns. Even the kitchen was reorganized into a rotation.

  But it wasn’t just the fortress that changed.

  The people did too.

  Kazuki had divided them into cohorts, mimicking ancient Roman formations. Training began before sunrise. Wooden swords. Sandbag drills. Punishment for sloppiness was harsh—but rewards were immediate. Warm meals. Clean bedding. Purpose.

  Some started calling him Shirotaicho—the White Captain—for the strange white undershirt he always wore beneath his makeshift armor. A relic from Earth.

  He didn’t correct them.

  Three days after Yorinaga’s retreat, a rider arrived from the north. A merchant, half-mad with fear, bearing a sealed scroll.

  Kazuki unrolled it carefully.

  The ink was gold. The seal—the Imperial Sun. It was a letter from House Tenma, the ruling family of the East.

  To the brigand styling himself Lord of Kurohime—

  Your seizure of noble land and assault on noble blood is a crime punishable by death. Surrender the fortress and present yourself in chains to our emissary, or face cleansing by fire.

  Kazuki passed the scroll to Mira.

  “They’re calling me a bandit.”

  “They think you’re just another warlord.”

  “Good. That means they still don’t understand.”

  “And if they send an army?”

  “Then we show them what a ‘bandit’ can do.”

  That night, Kazuki walked the walls alone.

  Torchlight danced on the battlements. He traced the stone with his fingers, feeling each crack and chip. Every imperfection was a liability. Every shadow a possible breach.

  But it was his fortress now.

  His army. His responsibility.

  He thought of his old life—of fluorescent lights, of vending machines and salary reports. Of the terminal he used to sit at for ten hours a day, dreaming of something else. Of power. Of freedom.

  And now, here he stood—high above a world that barely understood strategy. His knowledge was alien here. His skills—cheating.

  But war didn’t care about fairness.

  “You’re building something,” Mira said behind him. “Not just walls. Something bigger.”

  Kazuki nodded slowly.

  “Revolutions don’t start with grand speeches. They start with food. Safety. A plan.”

  “And what happens when other nobles start listening?”

  “They won’t. Not at first. But their soldiers will. Their people will. And then it’s over.”

  “What if we lose?”

  Kazuki didn’t hesitate.

  “Then we lose forward.”

  At dawn, a horn blew from the western cliffs.

  Kazuki raised his spyglass.

  Riders. Five of them. Flying a banner of black and silver—one Kazuki didn’t recognize. They stopped just outside arrow range.

  One man dismounted. Removed his helmet.

  He was older, with streaks of gray in his beard. His armor wasn’t polished for show—it was scuffed, used. A real commander.

  “That’s not a messenger,” Mira said beside Kazuki. “That’s a scout.”

  “No,” Kazuki muttered. “That’s a test.”

  He nodded to a soldier beside him.

  “Fetch the archers. Tell them: aim for the horse, not the man.”

  “Yes, Shirotaicho.”

  Moments later, the crack of a bowstring echoed across the hills. A single shot.

  The horse dropped.

  The officer on the ground flinched, barely avoiding the beast’s collapse.

  Kazuki cupped his hands and shouted from the wall.

  “Next time, knock.”

  Then he turned away.

  “Prepare the gates. War is coming.”