Chapter 16 Haru #2
The guards bowed and helped the messenger from the chamber, the doors closing behind them with a sound like the sealing of a tomb.
No one spoke for a long moment.
The generals stood frozen, the reality of what had just happened settling over them. Yubi was the first major city to fall, Daiki the first Daimyo executed, his wife and daughters the first noble family taken hostage.
My hands gripped the armrests of the throne, my knuckles white. Daiki’s face swam in my memory.
Think.
I needed to think.
Father would know what to do.
“This changes everything—and nothing,” Rei said finally.
His voice was tight with barely controlled fury.
“If the Asami have that many troops and are willing to murder surrendering lords—and have the wakō fleet at their command . . .” He practically spat the words.
“This is not a rebellion. It is an attempt to destroy the Empire itself.”
“Ishidou Shrine,” Ishida said, his face grim. “If Eiko’s forces are moving south, Ishidou and the surrounding villages will be their next target.”
“And if they move west?” Yamada said.
“The mountains are high and the Emperor is far away,” Rei intoned the ancient idiom that usually referred to avoiding Imperial justice but now carried a far different meaning.
The mountain range that ran nearly the whole length of the mainland would be soon impossible to cross.
Asami forces would be forced to retreat north, back into Asami lands, if they hoped to cross the narrow continent and head south toward the capital.
That would take weeks or months, perhaps many months with an army and all its supplies.
That was small comfort, but in the throes of war and defeat, any comfort was welcome.
“She will continue south,” Ryuji said after a moment. “Her forces will bolster their grip on Yubi while the bulk march toward Ishidou and beyond. It is what I would do in her place.”
“And if the Kohana enter the war? If they declare for Eiko rather than the Emperor?” Rei countered.
Ryuji glared. “Then we face a southern invasion while our eastern shores burn.”
The debate raged for hours, some arguing for a defensive posture, while others shouted that we should burn supply lines and crops to rob the Asami of prizes as they would surely take one village after another.
There was no consensus, no agreement on a course forward, only endless debate, unbearable consequences, and one terrible option followed by even worse ones.
Father, what do I do?
I had to say something. Do something.
Every moment I sat there silent was another moment they questioned whether I was capable of leading them through this. Whether I was strong enough to face an enemy like Eiko.
But what if I chose wrong?
What if my first major decision as Emperor led to more cities falling?
“Enough.” My voice cut through the argument, sharp and commanding in a way I did not quite feel. Every eye turned toward me.
I stood.
The movement felt significant and formal.
When Father stood from the throne, it meant he was about to render judgment, make a decree. It signaled an end to all debate, an Imperial proclamation.
“General Yamada,” I said, and was grateful my voice remained steady despite the fury churning in my chest. “You say we should move quickly to secure villages and sever supply lines by blade and flame. Tell me—when we burn the first village that refuses to declare loyalty, where do those people go?”
He hesitated. “They . . . they scatter. Flee into the mountains.”
“To join Asami forces,” I finished. “We would create more of the very enemies we are trying to prevent. We would turn uncertain villagers into active opponents. We would give Eiko more soldiers, more scouts, more people with new reasons to hate the Empire. Is that correct?”
His jaw tightened, but he nodded stiffly. “Hai, Heika, I believe it is so.”
“Grand Minister,” I continued, turning to my eldest uncle, who led domestic and diplomatic efforts.
“You advocate caution and negotiation, but time is our foe. Asami forces are already on the move. Every day we delay preparing our defenses and securing our supply routes is another day they gain ground. Is that also correct?”
“Yes, Heika,” he said quietly.
I looked at the map, at the thin line representing the Shirakami Pass threading through the mountains. It was a potential lifeline if we could secure it, a potential disaster if we could not.
“We will not burn villages,” I said firmly. “We will not make war on our own people.”
Rei’s face darkened, and I saw him opening his mouth to object.
“Asami Eiko-sama seeks for us to become like her,” I continued, cutting him off.
“She executed Toshi Daiki Daimyo publicly, brutally, because she wants us to respond with brutality. She wants us to burn villages and create martyrs. She wants us to act like monsters so she can point to us and say, ‘See? The Empire is no different than we are.’ We will not give her that satisfaction. We will not arm her with the weapon of our own destruction.”
“But Heika—” Ryuji started.
“But,” I said, raising a hand to still the Dai Shogun’s tongue, my voice hardening, “the generals are correct in that we cannot afford lengthy negotiations. Therefore, we will not negotiate. We will pay.”
Stunned silence was the generals’ only response.
Several exchanged confused glances.
“The villages along the Shirakami are poor, the pass filled with mountain folk living on thin margins. We will send riders tonight—fast riders under Imperial banners, and carts carrying sacks of rice. We will not demand loyalty or threaten. We will feed—and hire them.”
“Hire them, Heika?” Tanaka’s brow furrowed. “You are the Son of Heaven. You should never—”
A sharp glare silenced the man. “We need that supply route secured and we need it fast, so we will make it worth their while. One month’s wages for every adult who helps establish supply stations, who guides our forces, or who carries messages and spies on enemy movements.
The people will have a stake in our success because we paid them fairly and treated them with respect as loyal subjects of the Empire rather than obstacles to be overcome. ”
“Heika,” Yamada said carefully, “the treasury—”
“Is going to be drained no matter what we do,” I interrupted.
“Feeding thousands of refugees will cost us dearly. Reinforcing the Pass will cost us. Replacing lost equipment will cost us. At least this way, we spend rice to create allies instead of burying the bodies of civilians we turned into rebels.”
“And if they refuse?” Nakamura dared in a challenging tone. “If they take the rice and betray us to Eiko anyway?”
It was a fair question, one I did not have a perfect answer for.
“Then we have lost some rice and are no worse off than we are now,” I said.
“But if they accept—if they help us—we have secured critical supply routes without having to garrison every village, without creating more enemies, and without becoming the kind of leaders who murder their own people.” I paused, letting that sink in.
“That is what separates us from Asami Eiko. That is why we must win this war—not because we are more brutal, but because we are simply better.”
The chamber was quiet as the generals and councilors thought, calculated, and weighed our options, while also weighing whether my decision came from wisdom or weakness.
My voice grew stronger as I continued to speak, the words coming easier now.
“General Tanaka, organize the Shirakami Pass. Send riders tonight. Have them carry my banner followed by generous payments of rice. Establish supply stations and prepare reinforcement routes. Move at dawn, before if possible.”
“Hai, Heika.”
“General Yamada, coordinate with the Dai Shogun. Send word to every northern temple, shrine, and town on both sides of the range—Eiko’s forces are coming, perhaps everywhere at once. They must prepare for assault or siege. We will send reinforcements as soon as the routes are secured.”
He bowed stiffly. “As you command, Heika.”
“General Sato, assess the wakō blockade here at Bara. Find me a way to break their hold.”
Sato bowed. “It will be done, Heika.”
“Grand Minister, draft messages to every allied clan and province. Wrap the missives in white silk with my seal. Spread word of what happened to Toshi Daiki Daimyo. Make it clear what kind of enemy we face. Those who stand with us will have the protection of Heaven. Those who waver . . .” I let the sentence hang.
“Make them imagine what Eiko will do to them if she wins.”
“It will be done, Heika.”
I issued orders for each general assembled, orders about defenses, others about the flow of supplies, even more regarding the flow of information, then I looked around the chamber one last time, at the maps showing the Empire and at the generals who would see my orders carried out.
I had no idea if my decisions were correct, if they would secure peace or lead to further bloodshed, but I knew, deep in my bones, that Father had felt the same, and an odd sense of peace enveloped me with that understanding.
“We have lost our first battle,” I said quietly. “Our first city. We have lost a loyal Daimyo and a blessed son of Heaven, but we are the Mugen Empire. We do not break. We do not panic. We do not become the monsters we are fighting against.” I paused. “You have your orders. Now move.”
The generals bowed and began gathering their maps and scrolls, the chamber filling with the rustle of paper and the quiet murmur of urgent planning. I was about to step down when a voice spoke up from near the entrance.
“Heika.”
The Grand Minister stepped forward, his aged frame bent but his eyes still sharp. He had been silent throughout much of the council, observing from his position near the wall, as was his custom. The generals paused in their preparations, turning toward him.
“There is . . . one matter that still requires your attention, Heika.” His voice was gentle, almost apologetic. “Arrangements for the Imperial funerals for your father and brother. Both were Tennō, however long their reigns. Protocol dictates that we must . . .”
The word hit me like a physical blow.
Funerals.
For Father and Kioshi.
I had been so focused on Yubi, on the war, on Eiko’s atrocities, on the decisions that needed to be made, that I had pushed aside the reality of what I had lost, of what the Empire had lost. Hearing it said aloud, in that formal chamber, surrounded by all these people, was yet another dagger to my already wounded heart.
I swallowed hard, forcing down the sudden tightness in my throat. My hands gripped the edge of the throne behind me.
“The preparations and traditions,” Satoshi continued, his tone carefully neutral, “require thirty days for an Imperial funeral to include proper processions, ceremonies, and mourning period. Every province must send representatives, every temple must be notified, and the rituals must be performed in the proper sequence. Given that we are laying to rest both Takashi Tennō and Kioshi Tennō . . .” He trailed off delicately.
Thirty days.
Thirty days of ceremony and ritual while the Empire burned.
Thirty days of processions and representatives arriving from provinces that might be in rebel hands by the time they got here.
I could feel everyone watching me, gauging my reaction. I drew in a slow breath, using the pain in my chest to center myself, to remind myself why I was sitting on this throne, why these decisions mattered.
“Two,” I said.
“Heika?” Satoshi’s voice was uncertain for the first time I could remember.
“The funerals will take place in two days,” I said, keeping my voice steady through sheer force of will. “Not thirty. Two.”
“But Heika, the protocol—the provinces have not been notified—the ceremonies require—”
“The ceremonies will be conducted as they must be—and Grand Minister, my coronation must follow one day after the funeral,” I interrupted.
“We do not have thirty days for anything. We do not have time for every provincial lord to make their leisurely way to the capital while our cities and towns prepare for invasion and our supply routes remain unsecured. The representatives who are already here will attend. Those who are not will understand . . . or they will not. Either way, we cannot afford to tie up our military forces providing security for a month-long state funeral while we are at war.”
The generals gaped. Even Yamada looked stunned.
“The troops assigned to funeral security will be needed to reinforce the pass within the week,” I continued.
“The gold allocated for provincial entertainment and ceremony will be better spent on securing and supplying our defenses. The gods will understand. My father would . . .” My voice caught, and I had to force myself to continue.
“My father was a soldier before he was an emperor. He would not want his funeral to cost us another city.”
“Heika,” Satoshi said gently, “I understand your concerns, but to rush the funeral of an emperor—two emperors—it will be seen as disrespectful, as though you seek to move past their deaths too quickly. The people will not—”
“The people are fleeing Death himself,” I snapped.
“The people of Yubi watched Daiki-sama executed. The people of the Empire are wondering who will fall next. They will understand that I am doing what must be done. And if they do not . . .” I straightened, forcing the Imperial mask back into place. “Then they will learn.”
I looked at Satoshi, at his weathered face and worried eyes. He served my father for forty years. He was my uncle and had known Kioshi—and me—since birth. This had to be as hard for him as it was for me, perhaps more so, but I could not let sentiment dictate policy.
Not in that moment.
“Two days, Grand Minister,” I said quietly. “The full Imperial rites, performed correctly and with all appropriate reverence, but in two days. See that it is done.”
Satoshi held my gaze for a long moment, and I saw something shift in his expression. It wasn’t agreement exactly, but perhaps . . . understanding?
He bowed deeply. “Hai, Heika.”
I nodded once, then turned away before anyone could see my composure crack. I strode toward the side exit of the chamber, the one that led to the private Imperial corridors, my footsteps echoing on the polished floor.
“Heika—” Rei began behind me.
I raised one hand without turning, a gesture that said clearly, We are finished here. You have your orders.
The door closed behind me, muffling the sounds of the chamber: the rustle of armor as the generals bowed and the quiet murmur of voices as they began to disperse.
Only when I was alone with no one to see did I let my trembling hand come up to cover my face.