Chapter 2: Compared to the Serpent, What Are the Crane and the Monkey?
After playing out a rather grand scene of "the daimyō in disguise punishing an evil samurai" in the heart of the Land of Fields' capital, young Oda Nobunaga had, quite successfully, won over the hearts of the people.
Once the applause of the crowd began to settle, the boy — who in a previous life had been a successor-in-training in the world of modern society — now carried himself like a ruler born to power. A daimyō in a world of ninja, he had neither the patience nor the vanity to bask in the crowd's worship.
With an easy smile, he waved to the kneeling townsfolk and declined Zōmajirō's offer to summon a palanquin — that coffin-like contraption borne on eight shoulders, as heavy as it was ceremonial.
Instead, he swung into the saddle with youthful agility, earning another round of admiring cheers. The crisp rhythm of hooves echoed down the street as Nobunaga, draped in white like a "dragon among men," returned to his residence within the city's castle compound.
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"...Kinoshita Jirō, was it?"
Inside the main hall — something between a reception room and a council chamber, but solemn enough for a daimyō's presence — Nobunaga now sat in full formal attire. His bearing was calm and measured, every movement revealing a poise far beyond his years.
"Yes, my lord. This humble one is indeed Kinoshita Jirō."
The so-called "monkey" ninja knelt deeply, bowing so low that his rear end stuck up high, making the comparison to a monkey even more apt.
"You wish to enter my service, then?"
Nobunaga's tone was quiet but carried weight. Though young, the sharpness of his gaze and the air of command born from two lifetimes made his words heavy with authority.
"Your Excellency is wise and without flaw," Jirō replied, still keeping his forehead pressed to the floor. "That is precisely this one's wish."
A wandering ninja — even one with the manners of a monkey — could take the life of a samurai with ease. But in this delicate age, a ninja, no matter how powerful, still bowed before the title of daimyō.
Even the God of Shinobi, Senju Hashirama himself, had once paid respect to the nobility of nations. And Nobunaga, young though he was, understood that balance all too well.
"Very well," Nobunaga said after a moment. "I hereby grant you provisional status among my moi-kinu — my personal retainers. You will serve as one of my guardian shinobi."
He nodded lightly, as if sealing the matter with royal ease.
Of course, he knew that a ninja who volunteered himself to serve a minor daimyō was unlikely to be a top-class operative. Still, Nobunaga couldn't help but smirk inwardly.
Since my name is Oda Nobunaga, how could I possibly go without a monkey at my side?
After all, the "crane" — Zōmajirō — was already in his service. One more animal in his retinue hardly mattered.
And besides…
Compared to the "monkey" and the "crane," the serpent now coiled at his side was the one that truly demanded his concern.
---
Having dismissed the overzealous monkey and the ever-suspicious crane, Nobunaga finally found himself alone in the quiet, tatami-lined main hall.
He let out a soft sigh.
"Oh my… what could make our illustrious young daimyō sigh so often?"
The voice was smooth, cold, and carried a certain morbid playfulness.
Speak of the devil…
Before him stood the one he considered a being "beyond classification" — a man who had somehow slipped past every guard and barrier as though they were made of mist.
His skin was pale and almost slick, his black hair cascading down his back like a shadow. There was a chilling, serpentine grace to him — yet also the poise of a scholar. Together, these qualities lent him a strangely magnetic allure, especially to one of Nobunaga's still-youthful age.
Orochimaru.
The snake had arrived.
He looked upon Nobunaga — the boy who had inherited the title after the sudden death of the previous daimyō — with amused curiosity. His tongue flicked out like that of a serpent scenting prey.
"As the one kind enough to grant me refuge, Lord Nobunaga," Orochimaru said with a faint, dangerous smile, "should any obstacle trouble you — or should any foolish soul in your domain dare oppose your rule — I would be most delighted to... assist."
"No need."
The response came swiftly and cleanly.
Nobunaga met his gaze without flinching. In this world, the great lords had fought long and hard to tame the shinobi — those who once believed themselves above nations.
Even Senju Hashirama, the godlike founder of Konoha who could level mountains and summon forests, had shown courtesy to the weak and fragile daimyō.
And Nobunaga Oda — with the soul of a man from another world — intended to show no less strength in his refusal.
It would have been so easy.
A mere flick of the wrist, and this frail, pampered daimyō could have been crushed like a chick in the hands of the snake.
And yet, time and time again, the greatest of shinobi had bowed their heads to the weak, offering loyalty, letting themselves be driven and used by the hands of nobles.
Oda Nobunaga understood why. The balance between the sword and the pen — between power and order — was delicate. Break that taboo, and the world would drown in blood.
But if Orochimaru — a man who was beyond measure, beyond the order of this world — began killing nobles freely, what then?
Would he find their deaths too dull? Too tasteless?
Would he one day look to him, the daimyō, as a new and more intriguing flavor?
The thought chilled him.
It reminded Nobunaga of his past life — of that "Blue Star" world, where long ago the island nation's samurai had begun as little more than killers of nobles and lords. From that bloodshed, the shogunate system had been born, raising the warrior class to power while turning courtiers into ornamental relics.
"Oh my," Orochimaru murmured, voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Is that what troubles you?"
His tone feigned regret, but the smirk on his lips betrayed amusement.
He sat down beside Nobunaga, eyes gleaming with curiosity — studying the boy not as a ruler, but as a specimen. Still, for the moment, Nobunaga's rank shielded him from the full hunger behind that stare.
And perhaps, Orochimaru thought, it was the boy's composure — that strange, world-worn calm far beyond his age — that stayed his hand.
"When," Orochimaru asked suddenly, "will the proposal to establish Otogakure — the Village of Sound — be brought to the table?"
He leaned closer, voice smooth as venom.
"As soon as we found the village here in the Land of Fields, I can make your every ambition real. Expansion, conquest — the dream of elevating your land into a great nation. With a ninja village at your command, Lord Nobunaga, I can make it all happen."
It was not a request. It was an ultimatum dressed as a promise.
Orochimaru had fled Akatsuki months ago. His plans for the Sound Village had long since rotted on paper. Every delay from this child daimyō was another insult.
His eyes narrowed, amusement giving way to menace. The air thickened. The serpent was no longer pretending to be tame — he was coiling to strike.
"Kh… khm."
Nobunaga coughed lightly, pretending to think, though inwardly scoffing at Orochimaru's honeyed words.
The Land of Fields will become great, will it? he thought. Don't make me laugh.
He knew the truth — perhaps better than anyone in this world. A village founded by Orochimaru would not strengthen his nation. It would bleed it dry. The Sound Village would not be a symbol of progress, but a wound that never closed.
Yet seeing that cold gleam in Orochimaru's eyes, Nobunaga swallowed the words that rose to his tongue.
Yes, the "Snake Sannin" was powerful — a being outside the very system that bound other shinobi. But wasn't it strange, Nobunaga mused, that the so-called God of Shinobi, Senju Hashirama, would bow before a daimyō… while this creature before him showed none of that restraint?
A small, sharp smile crossed his lips.
"Tell me, Orochimaru…" Nobunaga asked softly, "what is your dream?"
At that, the atmosphere changed.
The snake's eyes slit thinner, his expression turning from amusement to predation. Those words — "What is your dream?" — were too familiar, too deliberate.
From his sleeve, a snake's head slithered out, tongue flicking. Patience was gone.
Perhaps it would be simpler, Orochimaru thought, to stop talking and just take this young lord — turn him into a puppet, another beautiful corpse dancing on his strings.
"Ninjas… are still just ninjas," Nobunaga said suddenly, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade. "A pack of brutes who think swinging strength makes them gods."
The insult was cold, calculated — a blow not of power, but of words.
He saw the serpent flinch ever so slightly. That was enough.
Rising smoothly, Nobunaga stepped past Orochimaru's looming form, ignoring the snake's head hovering near his cheek. His stride was calm, almost regal.
This was no retreat. It was a move.
"Follow me," he said, not looking back.
Because of course, Nobunaga Oda — a man reborn from another world — had already prepared for this.
He would lead the serpent where he wanted him.
And this time, the daimyō would be the one holding the leash.
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