With the messenger dispatched, a tense quiet fell over the Akiyama clan. They had won two impossible victories and held the enemy lord captive, but now they were faced with a new, unfamiliar kind of battle: waiting. The warriors patrolled the pass, their eyes constantly scanning the horizon for signs of a retaliating army. The villagers went about their chores with a nervous energy, whispering in small groups, wondering what the Izumo would do.
Takeru, however, did not wait. To the bewilderment of his entire clan, he turned his attention from warfare to farming.
On the morning of the first day, he walked the perimeter of the village's rice paddies. Jiro followed him, a silent, dutiful shadow. Takeru watched as two farmers guided a scrawny ox pulling a wooden plow through the heavy, wet soil. The tool was simple, little more than a sharpened wooden stake that scratched a shallow furrow in the earth.
"This is all we use?" Takeru asked, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"It is a plow, my lord," Jiro answered, confused. "It is how we have always prepared the fields."
"It's inefficient," Takeru stated flatly. He knelt, grabbing a handful of the thick soil. "It only scratches the surface. The soil beneath remains packed, tired. The roots cannot grow deep."
He found a clear patch of dirt and, using a sharp stone, began to sketch. His drawing was strange, a curved, blade-like shape with a fin behind it. "Jiro, send for the blacksmith."
The clan's blacksmith, a burly, one-eyed man named Tetsu, arrived and stared skeptically at the drawing.
"This," Takeru explained, pointing to his design, "will not just scratch the earth. It will cut into it, and this curved board will turn the soil over completely. It will bury the old weeds and bring the fresh, nutrient-rich earth to the surface. It will allow the roots of our rice to breathe." He looked from the drawing to the blacksmith. "Can you make this from iron?"
Tetsu rubbed his chin. "The curve will be difficult. And it will use much precious iron, my lord."
"An investment in a good harvest is more valuable than the iron in a thousand spears," Takeru said with finality. "A well-fed army fights better than a starving one. Make me a prototype. I want to see it work before the planting season is over."
On the second day, Takeru was at the forge, watching Tetsu and his apprentices struggle with the unfamiliar design. He offered simple, revolutionary suggestions—a modified bellows to create a hotter flame, a quenching technique using brine instead of plain water to make the iron tip harder. Each suggestion, born from centuries of future knowledge, left the blacksmiths staring at him with a mixture of confusion and awe.
It was there that the elder Kenji, his arm now healing, found him.
"My lord," Kenji began, bowing low. "While we await the Izumo's reply, perhaps we should look to our other borders. The Saito clan to our west is small, but their lands are good. An alliance now, while our star is rising, would be wise." He paused. "Lord Saito has a daughter, Aya-hime. A marriage would bind our clans forever. It would secure our flank."
Takeru considered this. A political marriage was a cornerstone of statecraft in this era. It was a logical, prudent move. "A useful thought, Kenji-san. We will speak of it again after we have the Izumo's answer. One war at a time."
His focus was absolute. The clan watched him, this strange new lord who seemed as passionate about the forging of a farming tool as he had been about the destruction of an army. They didn't understand it, but they no longer questioned it. If Lord Takeru believed their salvation lay in a new kind of plow, then they would have the finest plows in all of Japan. Their faith in him was becoming absolute.
On the afternoon of the third day, the tension in the village was a thick, suffocating blanket. Every eye was turned toward the pass. The deadline for the ultimatum was nearing. Would the Izumo send an army? Would they send nothing at all?
Takeru stood on the wooden watchtower at the village gate, his expression unreadable as he stared out at the winding path. Internally, his mind was a whirlwind of contingencies, planning for every possible response.
Suddenly, the lookout's horn blew. It was not the short, sharp blast of alarm, but a long, questioning note.
A small party, no more than a dozen men on foot, was approaching the pass. At their head, they carried the Izumo clan's five-petal flower banner. But tied just beneath it, fluttering like a captured soul in the afternoon breeze, was a long strip of white cloth.
Jiro appeared at Takeru's side. "A truce flag, my lord."
The party was allowed to approach. It was led by a stern, gray-haired man in formal robes, clearly an elder of the Izumo clan. Takeru's young messenger, Ken, walked beside them, his face pale but proud.
The Izumo delegation was led into the village square. They looked with barely concealed fear at the Akiyama warriors who lined their path, and with shock at the sight of their lord's personal banner, now hung like a hunting trophy from the lord's hall.
The elder stopped before Takeru, who had descended from the tower to meet them. His face was a grim mask of humiliation and defeat.
He bowed low, his forehead nearly touching the dirt.
"Akiyama-dono," the elder said, his voice heavy. "We have come to give you our answer."