The first time I saw him, I thought:
Oh. He's the same as me. Pushing himself, keeping himself wound tight, and really he's already at his limit.
As I took Mino, named it Gifu, and stamped the Tenka Fubu seal, all sorts of people had begun gathering around me. Among them was one.
A man named Akechi Mitsuhide.
He was a few years older than me, maybe. He had a calm, refined face, and there wasn't a gap anywhere in his speech or his manners. I heard he'd once been a wanderer, drifting from province to province and enduring hardship after hardship. Poetry, tea, etiquette—he knew it all. He was a man made of learning.
And this Mitsuhide worked, and worked. Whenever I gave him some troublesome task—
"As you command, my lord."
He'd bow deeply and take it on. Then, begrudging himself even sleep, he'd finish it without the slightest error. Arranging correspondence. Entertaining guests. Acting as go-between with all parties. He never cut corners on any task, however small. He'd get it done faster than anyone, more carefully than anyone.
My retainers were astonished.
"Lord Akechi is almost too capable."
"Such dutifulness, such ability. He must stand high in our lord's favor."
He certainly was reliable. Leave something to him and there'd be no mistakes.
But—every time I saw Mitsuhide, for some reason my chest grew tight.
Because. That man was always wound tight. Trying to behave perfectly. Trying never to let a single blunder show. A faint crease between his brows, his shoulders tense. Even at banquets, if I glanced his way, he was the only one not laughing. He never let anyone see him with his guard down.
I understood that painfully well. Because I'm the same. Shaking with fear on the inside, but in front of my retainers, I press my lips into a frown and speak short and low and final. Desperately playing the Demon King so no one will see I'm a coward. If I let my guard down, the mask comes off. So I can't relax for a moment.
Watching Mitsuhide was like looking into a mirror. He's the same as me. Driven by something. Hiding his fear. Pushing himself, pushing himself—wound tight.
Once, I spoke to Mitsuhide.
"Akechi. Rest a while."
Mitsuhide looked up as if startled.
"My lord. No. I can still work."
"...I see."
I couldn't say anything more. Anyone who could just rest when told "rest" would never have ended up like this in the first place. I knew that better than anyone, too.
Akechi Mitsuhide. An earnest, capable man, so dutiful it cost him.
I felt a strange kinship with him. He had the same scent. Pushing himself. Wound tight. Really, already at his limit—the scent of that kind of man.
At the time, I didn't know yet. That this kinship would someday bind the two of us to a certain promise, the most ridiculous one in the world.