Chapter 29 Part 1 : Kuroyama Minamoto Past

  The Battle of Sekigahara roared across the valley, sword clashes echoing amidst screams and thunderous war cries. Rain poured in sheets, turning the field into a mire of mud and blood. Despite being hopelessly outnumbered, the Minamoto clan fought with an unyielding ferocity—bolstered by mysterious blessings from the deities they served.

  At the heart of the chaos stood Yoritomo Minamoto, his blade glinting under darkened skies. He had taken command despite many labeling his clan too small to claim victory. Tokugawa Ieyasu, famed for his large army, led the opposition.

  “Stand your ground!” Yoritomo’s voice cut through the clamor. “The gods are with us today!”

  A blinding flash of light crackled across the front lines as one of Minamoto’s priests invoked a deity’s power, scattering Tokugawa’s foot soldiers. Another Minamoto warrior breathed fire along his sword’s edge, forcing the enemy to retreat in awe.

  “Father!” a voice cried from behind him.

  Yoritomo turned to see his son, Kuroyama Minamoto, crouching behind a makeshift barricade. Only ten years old, the boy’s eyes burned with a rebellious fervor far beyond his years. His black hair clung to his face, soaked from the downpour and sweat.

  “I told you to stay back!” Yoritomo shouted, glaring at his son. “This is no place for a child.”

  Kuroyama pouted, gripping a wooden practice sword. “I’m not a child anymore! I can fight!”

  “We’ll speak of this later,” Yoritomo snapped, though a flicker of pride shone in his eyes. “For now, find shelter. This is too dangerous.”

  Reluctantly, Kuroyama ducked down again. His heart hammered in his chest—he’d never seen such carnage, but neither had he felt so alive.

  By dusk, the battlefield fell silent. The Tokugawa forces, decimated by both the Minamoto clan’s skill and the terrifying displays of deity-blessed powers, beat a hasty retreat. Fires crackled among the wreckage, lighting the triumphant Minamoto banners still standing amidst the carnage.

  “We have won!” came the triumphant cry from a Minamoto officer. “Long live the new Shogun—Yoritomo Minamoto!”

  Soldiers and allies cheered, many dropping to their knees in prayerful thanks. Kuroyama, exhausted but exhilarated, ran to his father, eyes shining.

  “Father! We did it!”

  Yoritomo gave a weary nod. “Yes… we did.” His voice carried more relief than celebration. “But remember, my son, victory comes with consequences. Not everyone will accept this outcome.”

  Kuroyama frowned. “But we fought fair and square. We deserve the seat of Shogun.”

  “Justice doesn’t always prevail so simply,” Yoritomo replied, laying a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We have to remain vigilant.”

  Not long after Sekigahara, word arrived that Emperor Jimmu was less than pleased by the Minamoto ascendancy. Whispered rumors spoke of the Emperor’s preference for Tokugawa Ieyasu—someone more pliable to the throne’s whims.

  “He has summoned us to govern in Kyoto,” Yoritomo announced one morning as Kuroyama lay sprawled on the veranda of their Edo residence.

  The boy shot upright. “Kyoto? Isn’t Edo the seat of the Shogunate now?”

  “Apparently not,” Yoritomo said, a wry twist to his lips. “We have our title, but the Emperor decides where we rule.”

  Kuroyama scowled, eyes flicking to the distant horizon. “It isn’t fair.”

  Yoritomo sighed. “No. But these are the demands of our overlord. We cannot refuse.”

  Despite the bitterness in their hearts, the Minamoto clan packed up and traveled to Kyoto, setting up residence in a modest castle—much smaller than expected for a reigning Shogun.

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  Years passed. Kuroyama, now twelve, roamed the city of Kyoto with restless energy, often getting into brawls with local street toughs. Yoritomo, weighed down by political intrigue and the Emperor’s frosty disdain, spent more time in counsel with his remaining loyal retainers.

  One rainy afternoon, Tokugawa Ieyasu arrived unexpectedly at the Shogunate mansion. The tension in the air was palpable; the conqueror of Sekigahara meeting the man he had defeated.

  “Shogun Yoritomo,” Tokugawa greeted with a courteous bow. “It’s been too long. I… I come in peace.”

  Kuroyama stood to one side, arms folded, gaze locked on the enemy of his clan.

  Yoritomo gestured for his former rival to enter. “Ieyasu, your presence is unexpected. If it is peace you bring, then be welcome.”

  In silence, they walked to a small chamber where a low table and tatami mats awaited. Tokugawa motioned toward the package beneath his arm.

  “I’ve brought a gift—a fine tea from my province. I thought we might share a pot and speak of new beginnings.”

  Yoritomo’s eyes flicked to Kuroyama, who hovered at the door. “My son, join us.”

  “I’d rather stand,” Kuroyama replied, suspicious of Tokugawa’s every move.

  Tokugawa forced a smile, removing a beautifully crafted ceramic pot from his bag. It had elaborate dragon motifs etched around its base. “This is quite special, my lord. Only the best for our Shogun.”

  Carefully, he placed dried leaves into the pot and poured steaming water over them.

  “Doesn’t smell like any tea I’ve known,” Kuroyama muttered under his breath.

  “It’s an herbal blend,” Tokugawa explained calmly, pouring two cups—one for Yoritomo, one for himself. Then he turned to Kuroyama. “Perhaps young Minamoto might prefer a simpler brew?”

  Yoritomo waved a dismissive hand. “He’s old enough for the same tea we drink. Give him a cup.”

  They sipped in silence for a few moments, the aromatic steam drifting lazily. Rain pattered on the roof, filling the tense pauses between words.

  “I… wish to apologize,” Yoritomo said at last, catching Tokugawa’s gaze. “Sekigahara was a bloodbath. I started that war to protect my clan’s honor, and you fought bravely. Had I known the cost…”

  Tokugawa set his cup down, unreadable. “War spares no one. But we are men of power—our choices shape this nation. Perhaps the Emperor saw the battle as needless.”

  Kuroyama bristled. “What about our side of the story? People act like Father forced that war. The Minamoto clan was almost wiped out!”

  Yoritomo lifted a hand to hush the boy. “Your passion does you credit, my son. But enough. I am not the same man I was. After losing your mother, after caring for you alone… I regret many of my actions.” He turned to Kuroyama with a gentle smile and embraced him. “You have given me reason to change.”

  Kuroyama’s anger ebbed at his father’s warmth, and he whispered, “Father…”

  “Let the boy enjoy his youth,” Tokugawa said in a smooth tone. “Shall we allow him to run about now, Yoritomo? I believe he’s grown restless.”

  Reluctantly, Yoritomo patted Kuroyama on the back. “Go. Practice your swordsmanship or see the city. I’ll call for you soon.”

  Kuroyama hesitated, instincts nagging at him. Tokugawa’s smile seemed too kind. Too eager. “All right, Father.” He bowed stiffly and left, sliding the door closed behind him.

  Outside, the rain had slowed to a soft drizzle. Minutes passed; Kuroyama lingered near the corridor, half listening, half pacing. Then came a startled gasp from within. Muffled words. A choking sound.

  Kuroyama dashed back to the room, yanking the door aside. “Father?!”

  There lay Yoritomo Minamoto, collapsed beside the table, his tea cup overturned. Tokugawa’s cup sat untouched, still steaming, on the opposite side—completely full.

  “Father!” Kuroyama cried, his voice thick with dread. He rushed to Yoritomo’s side, turning him over. Yoritomo’s face was pale, lips tinted an unnatural blue.

  Tokugawa was nowhere to be seen.

  “No… no!” Kuroyama cried, tears already streaming down his cheeks. “Somebody help!” But it was too late. The Shogun had drawn his last breath.

  The funeral was a quiet affair. Even so, Emperor Jimmu wasted no time naming Tokugawa Ieyasu as the new Shogun. Servants whispered about a “special assassin’s teapot,” rumored to mask any poison’s taste. The Emperor, who openly disliked the Minamoto clan, did not investigate further.

  Kuroyama knelt before his father’s memorial, heartbreak twisting into fury as he realized the full weight of Tokugawa’s treachery—and the Emperor’s complicity.

  “They are erasing us,” whispered one of the few surviving Minamoto retainers. “Emperor Jimmu has ordered every record of Yoritomo’s deeds minimized. They claim he was never truly Shogun.”

  Kuroyama stared at the incense curling in the air, jaw clenched. “My father was the rightful Shogun. We won Sekigahara by might and the gods’ favor. Now they dare to call him a usurper?”

  The retainer lowered his eyes. “It is as you say. Our clan’s numbers dwindle. Many have defected to Tokugawa to save themselves.”

  “Cowards!” Kuroyama seethed. “They’ll regret turning their backs on the Minamoto name.”

  He stood abruptly, fists trembling in anger. “No matter what they write in their histories, I will make them remember who my father was. Tokugawa Ieyasu murdered him. Emperor Jimmu allowed it. I will not rest until they pay.”

  The retainer looked at the young boy with pity. “This road will be dark and lonely, Lord Kuroyama…”

  “Darkness means nothing to me,” Kuroyama shot back, tears welling in his eyes but voice unwavering. “They took my father. They destroyed my mother’s memory. I am Kuroyama Minamoto—son of the true Shogun—and I will have justice.”

  Outside, lightning flickered across the sky, as though echoing the storm raging in Kuroyama’s heart.