Story:

Back at the main camp, five hundred feet from the shouting match, Nobunaga stood over the campaign map with his generals—his younger brother Nobuharu at his shoulder, and Akechi Mitsuhide opposite, brow furrowed deep.

The Violet Witch and the Fairy Princess, meanwhile, were treating the war camp like a festival market—poking at the standard-bearer's flags, sampling the quartermaster's dried persimmons, and delighting the ashigaru by critiquing their spears' polish like noblewomen judging porcelain.

Their husbands' raised voices eventually drew them like moths to lanterns.

"—I am telling you, Mitsuhide, a monastery full of stubborn monks is a nuisance, nothing more," Nobunaga was saying, finger jabbing the map.

"We strike with everything at once. Lightning. The gates fall, the walls fall, and we are on the road to Kyoto before the incense finishes burning. They do not warrant a fortnight of my patience."

"Wagakimi, with respect—that is precisely the patience they warrant," Mitsuhide answered, measured as always.

"These are holy men with a grudge. The Oda name already stinks of impiety in every temple from here to Enryaku-ji. Surround them, show them overwhelming force, and send a conveyor. Let them surrender with honor intact."

"Their networks of parishioners stretch across every province between here and the capital. Religious support is worth more than ten thousand spears—and impossible to reclaim once you've burned it."

"Impossible? Nothing is impossible. Only expensive or cheap. Burned temples are cheap, Mitsuhide. Quick."

"Reputation is never cheap, Wagakimi. And it is the one thing a conqueror cannot requisition."

Nobuharu shifted uncomfortably between them, wisely silent.