For a moment, Takeru's command hung in the dust-choked air, a sound separate from the world. Then, it was answered.
A single, unified roar erupted from the Akiyama line. It was not the desperate cry of men facing their end, but a sound of pure, savage catharsis. They charged.
Fueled by something far more potent than mere courage—the absolute certainty of divine favor—the Akiyama warriors surged forward like a wave of iron and fury. Their previously fractured shield wall became a ragged but unstoppable wedge, crashing into the terrified and disorganized Izumo survivors.
The fight that followed was not a battle; it was a rout. The Izumo, their morale shattered and their formation obliterated, were trapped. Behind them lay the impassable, churning ruin of the rockslide. In front of them was a foe they now viewed as kami-touched, men who had just watched their lord command a mountain.
Takeru, his injured shoulder screaming with every jarring step, moved with them. He didn't have the strength or skill to be at the vanguard, but his presence was a burning sigil at their center. He kept his spear level, his expression a mask of cold resolve, and pointed out targets of opportunity, his voice cutting through the chaos with chilling clarity.
"Their archers on the right! Don't let them regroup!" "Saito, take your men and seal the western path! No one escapes!"
His clansmen obeyed without hesitation, their movements swift and deadly.
The Izumo commander, a giant of a man named Kaito whose horned helmet had seemed so terrifying minutes ago, tried to rally a small knot of his personal guard. He roared defiance, his sword a blur of motion, cutting down two Akiyama men who charged him recklessly.
While Jiro locked blades with the Izumo commander, Takeru moved with his guards just behind the line of engagement. He was not a participant in the duels, but the director of the assault. Kaito, sweat and blood stinging his eyes, finally broke from Jiro's attack long enough to see what was truly happening. His gaze fell upon Takeru, and then to the Akiyama men. He saw their wild, devoted eyes and understood. This wasn't a mob; it was a pack, and the calm-faced boy was its alpha.
"You!" Kaito bellowed, disengaging from Jiro with a powerful shove. "What demon's trick was this?"
Before Takeru could answer, Kaito's remaining guards were swarmed and cut down. He stood alone, surrounded. He looked from the blood-soaked Akiyama warriors to the impassive face of their young leader. He saw no honor, no warrior's pride in Takeru's eyes. He saw only the cold, detached gaze of an executioner.
"What... what are you?" Kaito whispered, his defiance finally cracking.
Jiro's spear ended the question, driving deep into a gap in the commander's armor. The giant fell to his knees, his horned helmet tumbling into the mud, and then pitched forward, lifeless.
His death was the final blow to the Izumo spirit. The last vestiges of resistance collapsed. Some threw down their weapons and begged for mercy; most simply turned and fled, only to be mercilessly cut down by the vengeful Akiyama.
Slowly, the sounds of fighting died, replaced by the heavy breathing of exhausted men and the low moans of the wounded from both sides. The adrenaline began to fade from Takeru's system, and the pain in his shoulder returned with a vengeance, a white-hot fire that made his vision swim.
He leaned on his spear, looking out at the scene. His 21st-century mind registered the grim statistics of the engagement. His 6th-century body, however, felt the visceral reality: the metallic scent of gore, the sight of familiar faces among the dead, the sheer, brutal cost of this "miracle." He had done this. The thought was both exhilarating and nauseating.
"My lord."
Takeru turned. Jiro stood before him, but his entire demeanor had changed. The easy familiarity was gone. He stood straighter, his head bowed slightly, his eyes averted. It was the posture of a loyal soldier before a revered and feared commander.
"The last of them are routed or captured," Jiro reported, his voice raspy. "The pass is secure."
"Casualties?" Takeru's voice was hoarse.
"We have lost forty-three, my lord. Another thirty are wounded, some gravely. The Izumo dead... there are too many to count easily. At least three times our own losses. We have taken twenty prisoners."
Forty-three. The number hit Takeru like a physical blow. Men with families, men he knew from the inherited memories of this body. The price of his strategy. A sour, metallic taste flooded his mouth, and he gripped his spear tightly to keep his composure. This was the reality of the age he was in. There was no room for sentiment.
"Separate the wounded. Our own first," Takeru commanded, the words tasting like ash. "Have the healers see to them. Gather all the weapons from the field—every spear, every sword, every arrowhead. We will need them. Count our dead and prepare them for last rites."
Jiro bowed deeply. "At once, my lord." He hesitated for a moment. "It was... a victory none thought possible. The men... they say the mountain spirits fight for the house of Akiyama now. For you."
Takeru simply nodded, too exhausted to process the implications of his burgeoning legend. He looked past Jiro, past the carnage of their victory, down the winding path that led away from their lands. This was just a vanguard. Kaito was just a field commander. The bulk of the Izumo army was still out there. They would hear of this disaster. They would be furious. They would come again, and in greater numbers.
This wasn't a victory. It was an opening move.
"Jiro," Takeru said, his voice quiet but sharp, cutting through the retainer's awe. "How far is it to the main Izumo encampment?"