A Time Traveller's Guide To Feudal Japan

A mess, that’s what it was. At the centre of complete bloody chaos, there was but a single point – that of the Miura swirling formation.

Men came at them by the front and they were met with a wave of bullets as the soldiers span around and emptied their rifles, before disappearing inside the spiral to reload.

Arrows did their jobs too, as the Uesugi men drew their bowstrings and fired upon the enemy in a rushed manner. At such a close range, the projectiles weren’t likely to miss.

The Hojo soldiers had hurried across the courtyard as though their rear’s were on fire, straight into a swarm of bullets. Men fell in the thousands, and that was only the first few minutes of battle.

With a boldness, the Hojo generals took to the scene. They raised up their swords and sought to inspire the troops, knowing that if they were to make any progress, they would have to put everything into demolishing the swirling formation in front of them.

A particularly young man took the lead, knowing that it would be all but impossible for them to be completely stopped. They merely needed to stop holding back, and plunge in, without fear for the consequences.

And that’s what they did. Lead by their generals, the remainder of the cavalry timed their charge with the infantry and they kicked their heels hard against the sides of their terrified horses, and they raced across the battlefield, honing in on their foe.

"Was I stupid to challenge you?" A certain Hojo general questioned himself as he raced to his death. But before he went so willingly, he reached and pulled out his final card. A bomb, straight from the hands of their fire bomb-throwers. He lit the fuse as they neared, counting down the seconds in his head until its detonation.

A bullet hit his shoulder. He wouldn’t have noticed the pain at first. His body was too shocked to feel it. But his eyes could not deny what they saw – the cap of his left shoulder was blasted completely off and his own charred meat was sent flying into the air behind him.

He felt blood rise up in the back of his throat and he smiled the fearless grin of a samurai, before raising his bomb up, about to throw it, knowing that in death he would have at least dismantled that troublesome formation, and he will have paved the way for the victory of his men.

He caught the eye of a certain man amongst that formation. A man clad fully in black armour, wielding his rifle with but a single hand. They shared a look that seemed to last longer than the young Hojo general’s whole life. Somehow, he knew, looking into those cold harsh eyes, that he had been completely defeated. The live bomb slipped from his fingers – he did not have the heart to throw it. It detonated on his own men instead.

A bullet blasted through his head a split second later, confirming to that man that his efforts had been futile. Even if he had tried, his bomb would never have reached them. He went into the next world feeling ready to confront the gods, for he had already met something equally as immoveable.

Wave upon wave of destruction. Piles of bodies mounted up. It was like a giant thousand-man mini-gun. It sprayed at their enemy an endless stream of bullets. Not a sword could reach them. With no bowmen to contest it, that spiralling formation was all but invincible. To the very end, it seemed as though everything had operated according to Gengyo’s perfect plan, even though, in reality, it had been a series of instinctual responses.

A minute went by and not a single horseman remained. Dead men – their chests filled with bullet holes – rose up from the ground, groaning as blood dripped from their lips, propelled by anger alone. Those men were quickly finished. They only made it a step further and then they were gone.

A complete and utter massacre. More than thirty thousand men, culled in a matter of minutes. In all of history, there had never been such an overwhelming victory.

Even with no enemies to face, the Miura men spun round and round, not quite knowing when to stop. They continued to pull their triggers, firing at empty air, adrenaline still fierce through their veins. It was so impossible that it took a while before their brains even comprehended it. They were sure there was meant to be an enemy closing in on them, from somewhere. But there was none at all. Only piles of dead men. Meat and bone.

"Call it off, Jikouji," Gengyo said, exhausted. It had not taken much from him physically, but mentally, it had drained all he had. He had a feeling that this one battle would take weeks to properly absorb.

"HOLD YOUR FIRE! HALT YOUR MARCH!" Jikouji shouted, even his voice unsteady.

The men slowly ground to a halt, truly like the gears of a machine. They were still trembling, their breathing laboured, absolutely disorientated.

"Did... Did we win?" A confused Uesugi soldier asked, hidden within the centre of the spiral.

"That we did, damn it," an ex-Takeda soldier said, slapping him on the back, "we’re men of the Miura army. The question is not whether we will win, but how much will we win by!"

Gengyo heard every word that the man said, everyone did, for the world was completely quiet now, only the smell of charred gunpowder was left behind. He smiled as he heard what they said. ’It’s growing,’ he realized. After so long, it was finally starting to take effect. The legend of invincibility that he had cultivated.

He took advantage, hammering home the point. "Aye. Now, and for a thousand years to come, the Miura army will remain undefeated. No matter the obstacle, we will overcome it. Together we will enter into the ranks of immortality."

The perfect words at the perfect time. Battle-drunk disorientated men allowed those words to alter the very fibres of their being. It became an unconscious truth that their whole identity was built on.

With a fervor that could only be described as madness, they cheered.

"OOORAH! OOORAH! OOORAH!"

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