The corridor leading to the strategy chamber was colder than the room Kazuki woke in. Stone underfoot now. Thin light bleeding through arrow slits carved into the outer wall. The air smelled like oil and dried iron.
Kazuki's footfalls echoed wrong. Too soft. Too even. His old rhythm had weight behind the heel.
This one? Measured. Clean. Not his.
Tadakatsu walked a step behind, quiet for most of the descent. Only when they neared the first checkpoint did he speak.
"They'll be expecting you to lead today."
Kazuki didn't look back. "Lead what?"
"Discussion. Planning. The usual." Tadakatsu didn't slow. "You always sit at the head of the table. Mayu usually handles the map. Rikuya oversees the calligraphy logs. Everyone else follows your pace."
Kazuki kept walking. His robe scratched lightly against his calves. "What if I don't have a plan?"
Tadakatsu gave a soft laugh, like it was meant to be comforting. "You always do."
They reached the inner doors. Two guards bowed, spears angled. Kazuki nodded, masking the twist in his gut. This wasn't a strategy chamber. It was a stage.
And he didn't know the script.
Inside, a long wooden table stretched toward an open hearth. A map lay unrolled across its center—thick parchment, frayed edges, terrain inked in fine lines. Mountains to the north. River to the south. Fortress in the middle. Lines of colored stones marked troop positions.
Six people stood already. Armor polished. Robes formal. Eyes sharp.
Kazuki scanned them quickly.
Mayu stood nearest the map, fingers tapping its edge. Watching him.
Rikuya was easy to spot—taller than the others, hair tied in a perfect knot, sleeves too clean. His presence carried rank like a blade.
He didn't bow when Kazuki entered.
"Hideyoshi-dono," Rikuya said, voice clipped, "we've been waiting."
Kazuki walked forward. Slowly. Every step measured, stolen from instinct.
"I wasn't aware we were on a schedule."
Mayu's eyes flicked to him. Not in surprise. In appraisal.
"You set it," Rikuya said. "Two days ago. After the last scout report."
Kazuki said nothing.
He reached the table. Looked down at the map like it might bite him. His eyes traced the southern ridge. Too steep for cavalry. Then the pass to the east—wider, flatter. Vulnerable.
The same way he'd read opponents before fights. Posture, stance, breath.
Only now the opponent was a valley. A siege line. A wall of names he hadn't learned yet.
He glanced at Mayu. "Give me the current status."
She raised a brow but nodded. "As of dawn, the rebel camp has expanded east. Second ridge tent lines are now within bow range of our outer patrols. No direct movement yet, but the formation's meant to threaten."
"Morale?"
"Holding. Though the men are tired of waiting."
Kazuki nodded like it made sense.
Then the silence came.
Everyone was looking at him.
Waiting.
Because it was his turn.
Because he was Hideyoshi.
And he didn't know what Hideyoshi would say.
Kazuki didn't speak right away. He let the silence stretch just long enough to keep it from cracking.
His eyes scanned the map again, slower this time, stalling. Buying seconds.
"You said their formation's meant to threaten," he said, repeating Mayu's words. "Not commit."
She gave a subtle nod.
"Then we wait. No reason to stretch our lines reacting to theater." He glanced to the southern ridge. "Hold the river approach. Let them think we're off-balance. If they overextend, we strike."
It was the kind of thing he'd say before a match. Rope the guy in, let him throw wild, then punish the angle.
It wasn't strategy. It was fight logic. But it worked.
Mostly.
Mayu gave a faint hmm of agreement. One of the older men—gray around the temples, arms crossed—murmured, "Conservative, but sound."
But Rikuya?
Rikuya stepped forward like he owned the floor. "With respect, Hideyoshi-dono, that's not what you said yesterday."
Kazuki's gut clenched.
"Yesterday," Rikuya continued, "you called for forward pressure. Proposed moving a third of our spears from the main wall to the Yamazaki approach. You insisted inaction would embolden the enemy."
He held the words like a knife.
Kazuki kept his expression still. "My fever was worse yesterday."
"And now it's conveniently cleared?"
Tadakatsu stepped forward. "Watch your tone."
Rikuya didn't flinch. "My tone reflects concern. Our command chain weakens every time our decisions pivot without reason."
Kazuki held the edge of the table. It felt cold. Real. Too real.
"I stand by what I said now."
Rikuya leaned forward. "Which version of you are we supposed to follow today, Hideyoshi-sama? The hot-blooded one from yesterday? Or the stranger in your skin right now?"
The room went still.
Kazuki stared back.
He met Rikuya's eyes.
Said nothing.
Just let the silence press back—heavy, exact, like a blade in sheath.
Rikuya stepped back, face unreadable. Then gave a curt nod and turned away.
Mayu gave Kazuki a long, unreadable look. Then gestured toward the parchment. "In that case, we'll reinforce the main wall and leave the scouts shadowing the Yamazaki flank. Quietly."
No objections.
But the room was colder now.
They were still packing the map away when the horn blew.
A low, sharp blast from the eastern tower. Short. Cut off mid-signal.
The room froze.
Another horn—higher this time—echoed from the southern wall. Then yelling. A clatter of boots. A rush of steel.
Mayu snapped to motion, already halfway to the door. "They're testing us."
"No," Rikuya said, hand on his blade. "They're starting."
A guard burst in. "Southern gate! Rebel skirmishers! Light contact—less than two dozen!"
"Bait," Rikuya growled. "Pull the second unit. Close the gap."
"On it," Mayu said, already gone.
Kazuki stood in the middle of it. Watching the men move around him. Watching how quickly he became unnecessary.
No one asked what he thought now.
Tadakatsu stayed behind. "Do we pursue Hideyoshi-sama?"
Kazuki didn't answer.
Because he didn't know.
Because this wasn't his name.
He turned back toward the map.
Southern wall. Twelve died last time. He didn't know how he knew that.
He just did.
Mayu's voice lingered behind his thoughts:
Do you remember what we lost last time they hit the southern wall?
And for a second, a smell hit him—burnt cloth, blood, something else—then it was gone.
He closed his eyes.
And said nothing.