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They could not help but take another look at the mon that flapped in the wind behind him, unconsciously committing it to memory.

"I do not stand here, demanding your loyalty. I do not deserve it, nor did Yoshimoto. I will spare you such pretences."

"Good, now f.u.c.k off." The same man spoke again, though his voice had lost its edge. Gengyo spared him a long hard look, causing the man to gulp, before casting his eyes downwards and growing silent.

"The Takeda will invade, in a week at most. With your village being so close to the border, I doubt you will be spared from the conflict. There is no problem there, however, is there? We merely lift up our roots and move elsewhere. It will be tough for a while, but we’ve grown used to it. Peasants are a resilient folk, are we not?" The way he identified with the word peasant, as though he was one of them, caused them to pause, and glance at one another. Surely not?

"I doubt you have heard of it, but my friends and I, we came from the village of Niwa. I fought under Niwa Nakatane as an ashigaru. He was a man of honour, and I enjoyed my service to him – an escape from the fields. However, as we all know, honour is no shield. It is a paper wall and a lick of paint, easily plunged through by treachery, or careless disregard. Imagawa Yoshimoto sent my master to his death, and so I sent him to his."

There was no added drama in his words. Everything was stated matter of factly. He did not tear up, or attempt to feign sadness to further convince them. It wasn’t necessary. His words were raw, and they could poke no holes in them. By now their attention was firmly focused on him, and only him.

"And now I am here, Daimyo of Mikawa. It is not a position I particularly desired, but I am in it all the same. From peasant to Daimyo, eh? Who has not dreamed of such things? But now, the gods are tutting. Its against the natural order of things. They send the Takeda to snatch it away from me, and allow a more distinguished lineage to retake the throne. Pitiful isn’t it?" He twisted his lips mimicking genuine disgust.

"Look at these hands." He ripped off his gauntlet, exposing his bare palm. "Are they so coated with mud and shit that they can smell my peasantry from a mile off? Is my face slick with filth from the fields? Is my breath tainted by the smell of poverty? No? Then how can they tell? What makes peasants different from samurai, and even Daimyos?"

He paused, holding both hands out wide, expecting an answer, caught up in his own oration.

"THERE IS NOTHING! WE PLUNGED OUR BLADES INTO THE FLESH OF A MAN OF IMAGAWA, AND HIS BLOOD RAN AS RED AS OURS! WE FOUND OUT, THROUGH OUR OWN EXPERIMENTATIONS THAT BIRTH MEANS PISS ALL! IF YOU WANT SOMETHING, IN THESE LANDS, REACH FORWARD AND TAKE IT!" He clenched his fist at them, his face hardened. Their heart beats quickened. Sweat coated their foreheads. Adrenaline fuelled each breath. Even his own men were caught off guard. He was so often mild mannered, and cheerful in his mannerisms, but here there was an infectious bitterness, that even stirred their own hearts.

"I am no nobleman. I have no distinguished bloodline to speak of. But what I do have, is a history of overcoming the impossible, and those around me have benefitted from it. If you tire of tolling the fields, and evading the enlistment officer, join me, and put an end to that. Honour your ancestors, and pursue glory. A single day on the battlefield is worth ten years out in this piss and shit. Make your choice, before we depart for the next village."

He left them like that, dwelling in the silence left by his words, as he redonned his gauntlet, and pulled his blade from the soil, running it against his kimono to remove the mud, before he sheathed it and remounted his horse.

Jikouji looked up after him, trying to decide whether he should also pull up the flag, and rejoin his master on his horse. He received no signal to help in that regard.

The villagers were still frozen in place, as though they had been encased in stone. Movement began at their necks. They looked to one another, trying to decide whether they should go forward or not. There were a few men, who were so stirred by the speech, that they needed not the opinion of others.

The first man to step forward was barely that. A skinny youth, with a few hairs of stubble attempting to grow on his chin. Eighteen at most. He walked forward, until he was only a few feet away from Gengyo, and he stared up at him defiantly, almost threateningly, his hoe grasped in his hands. "You swear that if I fight for you, I’ll never return to this?"

"Kill a man, and I will give you a gold coin for his head." Gengyo replied without batting an eyelid. Imagawa had left an immense amount of wealth behind with him, most of which lay in decorations.

That was all the answer the boy needed. A gold coin was enough to set the man for life. He could buy a field of his own, and have peasants work on his behalf, so that he would never raise a hoe again. He looked at his tool, his decision already made. His grabbed it by its end, and swung it as hard as he could, barely missing the heads of a few unfortunate people in the crowd. "I’ll fight for you, my Lord." He knelt down, pushing his knee into the mud, his face determined.

"Rise. You fight under my banner, but you fight for yourselves. There are heights to be reached, boy, if you have the courage to climb to them."

"I do." He affirmed, rising to his feet, and glaring at the other villagers around him, his lips curled in a smile of superiority. He could already tell that this was the single best decision he had made in his life. He no longer cared if he lived or died, it was simply the monotonous and soul sapping toil of the field that he wished to escape.

Now the older men were scratching their heads in irritation having been shown up by a scrawny little youth. They scowled with distaste, sharing looks with their wives. The women obviously did not want them to go, evident by their pleading expressions, but after listening to such a rousing speech, they could not resist as much as they wished to. If their husbands climbed, they could climb too, couldn’t they?

"Ah, to hell with it. Take care of your mother, little man. Daddy is going to make a name for himself." He kissed his wife on the cheek, and ruffled his son’s hair, striding across the mud, a sword at his hip. He’d been in his fair share of duels. There was a scar on his cheek.

"I’ll fight, if you’ll have me." He too knelt before Gengyo, in that same patch of mud.

"Tsch." The youth to Gengyo’s left tutted, having held hopes that he would be the only one courageous enough to raise his hand.

"You’re experienced." Gengyo commented, noting his scars.

"I’ve had my fair share of battles, my Lord." He replied, keeping his head bowed respectfully.

"How does a spear feel in your hands?"

"...Well, it’s a long pole of heavy wood, keeping those crazy f.u.c.kers from stabbing me through, so pretty great, I suppose?"

"Hahahaha!" Morohira roared with laughter at his dry comment. "Take him! We need this one, Tadakata!"

"Looks like you’ve got a fan. Welcome aboard." Gengyo murmured with a shrug, not about to turn him away in the first place.

Other men were handing off their children to their wives, preparing to cross the square, and pledge their allegiance. With each new man, many more followed. It would be left to the women now, to tend to the fields by their lonesome, in hopes that their husbands would return with coin to carry them away from the dirt.

The old and the infirm were all that were left behind. Even the balding man who had disrespected Gengyo had knelt before him, feeling a certain kinship, relating to that which he had described.

And so, they trotted away, their numbers swelling with their new recruits, heading onwards towards the next village.