News From Japan 1:
Sakurada Gate incident:
D100 => 81
Il Nouskua felt a sharp pang in his mind as he was carried through the narrow streets of Edo, jostled within the covered palanquin. Word had reached him in scattered rumors, whispers at first, now growing louder, of the unrest brewing in the heart of the city.
Isolationists were gathering strength, their numbers swelling, their once-muted voices now openly questioning the established order. Worse still, few faced punishment for their insolence. The Emperor, once content to be a figurehead, now surrounded himself with young, radical men,fiery-eyed dreamers and schemers alike.
There were calls in the streets and teahouses to abolish the Shogunate. The end of Tokugawa rule. The restoration of imperial power, not as a ceremonial relic, but as the true and beating heart of government.
The idea was absurd, and yet it was no longer just idle talk. It was gathering weight and momentum.
Nouskua could not help but chuckle bitterly to himself as he was borne along. These fools believed that merely removing one man, one office would birth greatness. It is as if wise statesmen would sprout from the earth like bamboo shoots after a rainstorm.
Power was not so easily won, and certainly not so easily transferred. And certainly, not easily wielded.
Japan was no nation of savages, despite what the ignorant barbarians from across the seas liked to whisper. But he knew, with a cold certainty, that Japan remained backward in many ways, still tangled in tradition, in pride, in the madness that men cloaked as "virtue" and "loyalty."
He knew the truth of it: men would kill for their beliefs, not out of devotion to any noble ideal, but because ambition wore many masks. They would lie, to others and to themselves, claiming service to the Emperor while serving only their own hungry hearts.
He understood this, perhaps too well.
He opened his mouth, about to say something to his guards, when a sharp scream ripped through the crowd outside. Instinctively, Nouskua peered through the thin slit in the palanquin's screen, and in that moment, a blade shot forward from the throng.
Pain exploded through his hand.
There was no heroic cry, no grand defiance. Only a small, broken whimper as the sword tore through flesh and bone.
Chaos erupted around him. His men reacted quickly, hauling him to safety, pushing back the would-be assassin. Blood poured from his wounded hand, staining the silk of the palanquin.
He would live, but the hand would never fully heal. It would remain twisted and crippled, a constant reminder of the times he lived in.
A country on the brink of transformation. A man who would not… no could not… be part of the world that was coming.
And he survived. Somehow.
And he would have to make the most of it.