I love sumo—or so everyone believes.
I gather strongmen from every province and have them wrestle in the castle garden. To the winners, I give rewards without stinting. Rice, gold, even a sword, if they ask for one.
My retainers watch this and nod, deeply moved.
"Our lord truly loves the martial way. He gathers the strong so that he may master the very summit of arms."
No. I'm just scared.
Think about it. What if someone takes my sword in the middle of the night? What if someone grabs me from behind without warning? What if someone grapples me in a narrow corridor? At times like that, a sword is useless. What counts is bare-handed technique.
I want to know as many of those "ways to survive bare-handed" as I possibly can. So I summon men from every province who are truly strong. I summon them, make them fight, and watch with my eyes wide as saucers.
How did that man get his opponent's hips off the ground? How did that giant get rolled over by a smaller man? That footwork, that way of slipping the hand in—good, got it. I'll try it tonight on the earthen floor.
That's why the rewards are generous, too. In thanks for showing me one strong technique, I pile up bales of rice. When you're buying the means to protect your life, what money could be too dear?
And that, too, gets mistranslated.
"Our lord rewards the strong regardless of rank. What breadth of spirit!"
There's no breadth of spirit. There's self-preservation.
—And there's one more thing.
There are no blades here.
Anyone who steps into the ring is unarmed. No swords allowed. A dagger tucked in a robe, a needle hidden in a sleeve—strip a man down and you'll know at once.
Think about it. Wherever I am in the castle, there are swords near me. At my retainers' hips, in the shadows of the corridors, even under the tray of the page who carries my meal—a blade might be lurking. While I eat, while I sleep, I'm afraid of it.
But in the ring, it's different. The man facing you is as naked as the day he was born. There's nowhere to hide a weapon. Even if he attacks, it'll be bare-handed. And bare-handed—I've studied this much. I know ways to escape, ways to dodge.
So only when I'm sitting at the edge of the ring can I breathe, just a little. The one tiny patch in this country where I don't have to fear a blade.
That's what sumo is to me.
That day too, as I watched a pinned man shout "I yield," a shiver ran through me. Can a person really hold another person down that easily? What if that had been my neck? What if that had been my throat? Cold sweat ran down my back.
But—even so, now and then, I go down into the ring myself.
I tie on a loincloth, bare my skin, face a wrestler, and we lock up.
Where our chests collide, his body heat passes into me. His sweaty arms wrap around my back. His rough breathing sounds right next to my ear.
Hot.
Is a human body really this warm?
I'm afraid of people. I'm terrified of anyone getting within reach. So I can't be close to anyone. Even with the retainers I share meals with, I always leave a few paces between us. As far as I can remember, no one has ever held my hand, or put an arm around my shoulders.
And yet.
Only in the ring can I touch another person's skin. He's unarmed, there's no blade, and whatever he's scheming, once we're locked together I can feel it with my body. So—I'm not afraid. Because I'm not afraid, I can get close. Because I can get close, I can touch.
Only while we're locked together does it feel as though I'm not completely alone in this world.
It's ridiculous. The heir to the mighty Oda, wrestling sumo because he's starved for human warmth. I could never tell anyone.
So today, too, I give the command.
Please.
Anyone.
Just one truly strong technique—teach it to me.
And if I may wish for it—wrestle with me just a little longer.
All I want is to still be alive tomorrow.
—And all that desperation of mine, the people ringing the garden whispered about like this:
"They say the Oda fool is possessed by the martial way."
"Nay, he is a very demon god of war."