"To the world, she is a stranger. But to him... she is the daughter he never had, and the key to a future only he dares imagine."
⸻
I blinked at him.
"You want me to call you... Father?"
Saitō Dōsan smiled like he had just named a star.
"Exactly. What else would a daughter call the father who gave her life during his overseas travels?"
"Let them think you're the child of some foreign woman I loved long ago."
I stared at him. My lips parted, but no sound came out.
Daughter?
He said it so easily. So casually.
Like I was a piece on a board he'd picked up and named for convenience.
And maybe I was.
"That's... insane," I managed, but my voice didn't even sound like mine.
Because what else could I say?
That I wasn't from here? That I wasn't from now?
He burst into laughter, his hand clapping my shoulder as if we were old friends sharing a private joke.
"Good! You're already learning how warlords survive. A little truth, a little madness—makes for a good legend."
His palm was warm. Grounding.
And yet the chill wouldn't leave my bones.
I stared at the firelight dancing in his eyes and realized something terrifying—
This man commanded the respect of warriors.
He was used to being obeyed, feared, perhaps adored.
And I? I was nothing. No name. No history. No future that belonged to me.
If I wanted to survive, I had to take the name he offered.
Even if it burned.
I forced a smile.
Because warlords didn't give kindness for free.
And if I was going to play this part, I'd better be damn convincing.
⸻
For three days, he gave me everything.
Silks in the softest colors. Kimonos layered with embroidery I didn't know how to wear. Food so elegant I didn't want to ruin it by eating.
He called me his child before his vassals. And though their stares betrayed their doubt, they bowed—because they feared him.
And more than once, I caught them watching me when he wasn't looking.
As if they were waiting for me to fall out of favor and disappear.
⸻
But Dōsan never once wavered.
He walked beside me by the river. Every day, without fail.
And as we walked, he spoke of lords and provinces, of hunger and gold, of battles fought for names etched into maps.
"All of them fight for land," he said. "But I fight for the people who grow the rice. For the mothers who lose sons to wars they never asked for."
I glanced at him.
"Then why raise a daughter you barely know?"
He looked at me for a long time.
"Because you don't look at me with greed. Or fear. Or calculation."
"You look at me like you're trying to figure out whether I'm a good man."
I didn't answer.
But inside... I realized I was.
⸻
I still looked different from them. My skin, my eyes, my height—none of it fit. Even in the most elegant gowns, I felt like a shadow at the edge of a painting.
But he smiled anyway.
"You will be known as Nōhime, my daughter."
And when I asked why, he simply said:
"Because that is what the world needs to hear. But I will always know you are Helena."
⸻
One morning, as Hannah—the only maid who seemed to genuinely like me—braided my hair and failed to pronounce "thank you" for the hundredth time, I caught sight of my reflection.
I didn't look like Helena anymore.
Not quite.
And not yet someone else.
But... something new.
⸻
That evening, I stood beside Dōsan at the edge of the courtyard.
The moon was high. Below us, dozens of messengers were saddling horses, preparing to ride.
He looked at me.
"Tell me, my daughter... who should we invite first?"
I looked out at the stars.
"Invite them all."
He raised an eyebrow.
"All? Even the ones who might kill each other in the same room?"
"Especially those."
"Are you trying to start a war?"
"No," I said.
"I'm trying to show them who's worth fighting for."
He stared at me. Then... smiled.
"You speak like someone born to command nations."
I shook my head. "I don't even remember how to tie my own sandals."
He laughed so loud the horses below startled.
And then he gave the order.
⸻
The messengers rode out that night.
With one goal:
To gather the most powerful, the most dangerous, and the most curious warlords in the land...
...to a feast they could not ignore.