The sunlight barely penetrated the thick air of the valley, adding to the frozen atmosphere that clung to the walls of the old Yamato noble house.

  Ryumaru, Nobuzan's father, stood alone on the eastern veranda. His aged body was wrapped in a dark cloak, his eyes gazing at the desolate valley. He knew that it wasn't just the enemy Qihuang Shin he had to be wary of. There was something colder, more insidious, slowly creeping into the family's walls: the seed of doubt.

  Inside the house, the atmosphere was filled with tension. The servants whispered about the previous morning's incident—Nobuzan's bleeding, Hana's anxiety, and Fitran's demeanor, which seemed too calm, too prepared for any situation.

  In the dining room, Ryumaru sat with the elders. Seiran served tea with trembling hands.

  Hisayuki opened the conversation, “Ryumaru-sama, perhaps we should start questioning who is truly in charge here. Are we acting as a family, or merely pawns in Fitran's game?”

  “You see for yourself, Ryumaru-sama. Every time there’s a crisis, Fitran always knows before we are informed. I fear he’s not just strategizing for war, but also orchestrating us all…”

  Ryumaru nodded slowly, “He knows how to exploit our dependency. We must be careful—do we really want to hand over the throne with our own hands?”

  “Don’t worry, Ryumaru. In this valley, we are never alone. There’s only one way out—we must show who truly holds the power,” Hisayuki replied sharply.

  “But who are we if everyone starts doubting one another?” Ryumaru asked again, his voice sounding heavier.

  “We are Yamato, and our strength lies in our resilience against the shadows,” Hisayuki answered, staring intently.

  “It seems we all need to dig deeper into this secret before everything crumbles,” Ryumaru whispered firmly.

  “I see it too,” he said flatly, staring straight ahead. “Once, this house was governed by blood and trust. But now? Every decision must pass through the approval of outsiders.”

  Senzaburo interjected, his voice low yet firm, “But without him, we would have fallen long ago. The spiral railgun, the traps within the walls, all of that came from his mind. Don’t forget who saved us.”

  Ryumaru shot Senzaburo a sharp look, his words cutting like a dagger, “A mind too far from its roots. Why should we win a war if our souls are sold? This family must not become a shadow of others.”

  Meanwhile, Fitran stood in the main hallway, speaking quietly with Kenji and Mira. He raised his voice just enough for a few servants to hear, “Be wary of anyone who goes out too often at night. Some old families may not be loyal. If you notice anything strange, report to me first, not the elders. We cannot let them catch wind of our moves.”

  Fitran deliberately asked Kenji to discuss rumors of betrayal among the old families. He smiled coldly, “Little messages are being spread. Distrust is sharper than a sword.”

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  “Ryumaru is starting to doubt his own wife,” he whispered, his gaze reflecting a tumult of thoughts. “No secret is hidden too deeply in the light of lies.”

  “Hisayuki may still be secretly connected to her hometown,” Fitran replied, his calm voice masking the threat beneath. “There are lines you don’t want to cross by digging into deviations.”

  “Senzaburo seems to be hiding food supplies,” Ryumaru asserted, his tone filled with disdain. “It seems he prefers survival over our loyalty.”

  That night, the rumors spread like fog, clinging to every wall and corridor. The people and servants began to watch each other, suspecting one another, even the core family limited their conversations to small groups.

  Ryumaru could no longer bear it. He approached Fitran in the study, the atmosphere between them as cold as metal. Fitran was writing strategy notes but stood to greet his father-in-law politely.

  “Fate-dono,” Ryumaru began, his firm voice cutting through the silence, “may I ask as a father, not as an elder?”

  Fitran nodded, his expression flat. “Of course, Ryumaru-sama. Please.”

  “What is it that you truly seek in this house?” Ryumaru stepped closer, igniting passion in his voice. “Victory? Power? Or merely ensuring your name is immortalized in the history of Yamato?”

  Fitran smiled faintly, unshaken. “I seek the future. A future where the Oda house endures, not just as a name, but as a force that cannot be easily toppled by any enemy.”

  Ryumaru shook his head, his eyes blazing with doubt. “But at this cost? Maintaining power through fear will erode our souls.”

  Fitran smiled faintly, unshaken. “The future does not care about the past, Ryumaru. We move forward, not backward.”

  “I seek the future. A future where the Oda house endures, not just as a name, but as a force that cannot be easily toppled by any enemy.”

  Ryumaru shook his head, “Power can be a boomerang, Fitran. Can’t you see? This family is starting to crack.”

  “But at what price? You’re beginning to fracture the family. Spreading suspicion among those who once trusted each other. What’s the difference between you and Qihuang Shin if suspicion becomes a weapon?”

  Fitran stood, gazing out the window, “Really? Or are they simply too weak to face reality?”

  “Sometimes, the strongest fortress is not made of stone or steel, but of the fear of loss. I’m just ensuring no one is caught off guard.”

  In the master bedroom, Nobuzan lay weakly. Hana helped her clean her wounds, changing the bandages. The atmosphere was heavy, reminding Nobuzan of the fragile relationships that remained.

  She asked Hana, “Do you think I’ve lost Fitran? Or… did he never truly belong to me?”

  “When he chose his path, did you think he would return? Someone must suffer to gain power, Nobi.”

  Hana lowered her head, whispering, “I don’t know, Nobi. But I believe that sometimes a strong house is strong because it is often tested, not because it has never broken.”

  “My trials may be greater, Hana. And I’m not sure I can endure.”

  Nobuzan cried silently, caressing her belly. She knew that physical wounds could be easily treated, but wounds of trust would remain open until someone dared to close them—or let them become an unfathomable chasm.

  That night, the Oda house was quieter than usual. In every corner, there were whispers. In every gaze, there was doubt. And amidst it all, Fitran, who never slept—continuing to weave his web of influence, ensuring every seed of division grew at the time he needed most.

  “Do you think all of this will be alright?” Ryumaru stared at Fitran sharply. “Power is only for self-destruction if mismanaged.”

  “Ah, Ryumaru,” Fitran replied with a cynical smile, “who needs goodness if fear can control them?”

  “Control? Or foolishness, Fitran. When that fear becomes a fortress, built on lies…,” Ryumaru clenched his fists. “It will crumble. You know that.”

  “Crumble? Perhaps. But only after everyone serves me.” Fitran stepped closer.

  Yet Ryumaru, with all his age and wisdom, knew one thing: A fortress built on fear will one day fall to hope that never dies.

  The next dawn brought no peace, only emphasizing the lines of division between family and people. And in the distance, the drums of war from Qihuang Shin continued to beat, waiting for the moment to strike Yamato—and its fortress of doubt.