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"That’s one man! What can he possibly do?" He protested, raising his voice.

"Perhaps nothing, perhaps everything. We will wait." Oda ordered firmly.

Once more Ichijo charged, his men behind him. The Elders had afforded him more respect, now that they had seen what he was capable of. One had given up his arm so that he might live a few moments longer, and the other had a deep slash going down his midsection. A millimetre deeper and there would have been the white bone of a rib poking through.

Most men would nod with satisfaction, admiring their handiwork – another couple of engagements and they would be finished. His men were holding up better now as well. They were slowly thinning the enemy’s numbers under his charge. He had lost track of how many he had killed. But he was beyond irritated. With each strike he dealt, he noticed minor imperfections. He should have ended this with a single perfect flurry. Had he grown rusted? He curled his lips in a snarl, closing his eyes midcharge.

He imagined himself in a quiet courtyard, the rhythmic flowing of a stream nearby comforting to the ear. In front of him, there was a sakura tree, blossoming in the heart of spring and from it there fell a single pink petal. He admired its descent as it swayed this way and that way, carried by subtle currents of air, its movement seemingly erratic. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, and with a single motion, he sliced it in two.

When he opened his eyes again, emotion had faded and he entered a state of deep relaxation. There were no words or thought, merely an acknowledgement of the present. Two men came at him, their jaws parted in a simultaneous battle cry. This was their all that they were giving. Anger and desperation. Such powerful emotions. They were amongst the top fighters in the whole of Japan.

He released his hands from his reigns, trusting the horse of his enemy to remain straight and true – from the moment he had entered its saddle, the strength of his character had infected its mind and he had become its master. He clasped his katana, sparing no thought for defence. If all went wrong, then he would be disembowelled and beheaded once their slashes landed. Without fear, there came a subtle awareness of perfection. The world was slow and subtle, as he swung his sword, following that perfect line, he was in full control of the area around him.

The two parties passed each other and they prepared to turn their steads for another deadly charge. But those Elders were unable to turn. Their horses came to a halt and before they could tug on the reigns to urge them round, they collapsed from their saddles, covered in blood.

Ichijo – for his part – was entirely unharmed. Their blades had not even managed to touch him. Had his slash been even a millimetre off, then it would have been stopped by bone and would never have managed to reach its next target.

"Pah. Finally." He spat, flicking the blood from his blade. It had taken far too long, but it did bring him some joy to find that he was still capable of the highest level. "Let us finish you, then." He motioned his sword towards the remnants of the Matsudaira cavalry. They had grim looks on their faces, but they were determined not to go down without a fight, even if their Generals had died. Perhaps it was precisely because their Generals had died – they fought to honour them, so that they might join them proudly in death.

Whatever emotions they were feeling were of no concern to Ichijo. To them, they were a mere chore. He could stamp them out in minutes. A more imposing task would be sweeping clean the temple steps. His own men had their hearts lit on fire. This had become sport now, for them. They could hunt at their leisure.

One cycle, then another. Ichijo had killed over a hundred by himself and the others were falling quickly. The stragglers were dealt with soon enough.

Nobunaga turned to Hirate pointedly. "Fine... But how was I meant to know that he’d be a monster?" All could tell now that this single man was capable of influencing the tides of battle entirely by his lonesome and Hirate found himself muttering rather defensively.

"That’s the point. We didn’t. That’s why we wait for opportunity, though it seems he will be ending this Miura Tadakata rather promptly." Ichijo was racing across the battlefield with the last of his fifty men in tow. He had intended to join the fray of the encirclement, but with a head worth taking so close on hand, there was no resisting. With a single slash, he would be the hero of this battlefield.

Shingen watched him go, a smile on his face. "The spirit of the Takeda runs through your veins as aggressively as it does mine, brother." He whispered to himself. He would be the man that history remembered only by the luck of birth order. But even if history did not remember him, Shingen certainly would. Ichijo, the strongest swordsman to walk these lands. The strongest swordsman in history.

"Eh..." Seeing an unexpected visitor racing towards him with enthusiasm, Gengyo was scratching his head. He’d neglected to consider that they’d have a cavalryman chasing after them. That will be why Matsudaira had not yet given the signal – he feared that their momentum would be lost should Ichijo find his way to their rear.