Time Traveling Mouri
The second time ended with failure.
This time his body synced perfectly; it was overwhelming to suddenly be burdened with so much knowledge. He opened his mouth to speak, and the words came out in the same dialect that had confused him so greatly before. The tatami floors beneath his tabi suddenly felt normal, and comforting, and as he looked around, he could name each and every object—the kakejiku painted by a famous calligrapher for his father, his three separate rings that has been crafted on different occasions, the name of the painter who had carefully brushed the tiny lines that made up the scene on the shouji that divided the room. He retrieved a calligraphy set that felt familiar in his hands, and set about making sumi. With the brush gripped properly in his right hand, he carefully selected thirty-one syllables to form a waka—the strokes were as close to perfect as he had ever seen, and he imagery for the poem had come as naturally to him as his new accent. When looking closely at the words, he realized that many of the characters he had chosen had been abandoned in the Meiji Era. He smiled.
With this confirmed, he moved to the room where he knew his armor was located, and in a manner of a few short moments, he had changed from the silk layers of his kimono to the tougher leathers of his armor. The simplest of his rings waited for him, and he went through a quick battle dance. Muscles that he wasn't aware of stretched, and the ring orbited his body, from fingertips to waist to the tips of his tabi, and he was overcome with a rush of joy and power. It was no wonder his past life had gotten so cocky—anyone who could fight like this must feel like a god.
Or a demon.
With his past life's knowledge and muscle memory also came his past life's plots and ambitions. The Battle of Sekigahara was none too far away, though not close enough that everyone had chosen their sides. His past life had weighed the sides and compared the possible outcomes, and decided that it would be wisest to side with Ishida, who defended the name of his past lord, but only if he could somehow convince the infamous Demon of the Western Seas to join their side as well. As interesting as this plot was, the current Motonari knew how history had been written, and the period following the Sengoku Era was definitely not named after the city where Tokugawa made his home because Ishida had won.
But the more he thought, the more his past life's plans seemed more and more reasonable. Motonari was proud, and had great faith in his own abilities, but as the first try had demonstrated, he would have to rely on the skills of this past life if he were to be successful. And with that in mind, he called for one of his advisors to confirm that Chousokabe Motochika was indeed far from his home port, adventuring among the waves. For if he should be far away, the time was perfect to launch a sneak attack on Shikoku, and leave behind death and the yellow hollyhock banner of the Tokugawa in his wake.
And when news of the carnage finally reached the ears of the one-eyed pirate, Motonari sent him a condolence letter written with his nicest brush strokes. He offered to put aside their rivalry for the time being so that they could focus their efforts to punish the one who had hurt Shikoku so, and though obviously suspicious of the leader of Aki's sudden kindness, Chousokabe agreed.
The plot advanced smoothly after that, only faltering when the young priestess of Shikoku showed up at his door step. Though she was a figure in his past life's memories, it had startled him to see her face in this time. The Tsuruhime he had known in his own time had been right in saying that souls tended to congregate together, and once they had met in a lifetime, it was likely that they would meet in the next.
This statement also held true for the great lord and pirate of Shikoku, who Motonari had only thought of as a chess piece to be moved. Ishida had called them both to battle, and Motonari, who knew what face to expect, and knew Chousokabe from his past life's memories, was startled upon seeing him for the first time. This Motochika was so vastly different from the one back home. His swagger and smile practically bled confidence, and his muscles rippled as he moved, wielding that ridiculous anchor with ease. From the eye patch to the salty stench of the sea that Motonari could smell even from where he was standing, this man was truly a warlord of the Sengoku Era.
It would not do Motonari's feeling justice to say that he found this version of Motochika attractive. The feelings were so heavy that he could only stand there, transfixed for the moment, eyes locked on Chousokabe as his heart clenched in want. Physical attraction was a part of it, yes, but more so was the way that the man brandished his weapon in the sun, calling his men forward and directing them with ease and skill. He was a born leader, and it was no surprise that so many fought for him voluntarily. That lone eye looked in Motonari's direction, and he knew that he wanted this rough pirate in his bed, both to take him and make him cry out in lusty moans, and to be taken by him, pinned down by a force no less than the sea.
One of his men cried out as he was struck down by a stray arrow, and Motonari's focus was drawn away from the husky man. Despite the glances he kept throwing at him throughout the battle, Chousokabe appeared not to notice, or else ignored his fellow warlord entirely. Motonari did not see him again until the last battle.
It was a crisp day in late October, and blood had already soaked the grounds of this valley in central Japan. Though their chances had been high in the beginning, it was certain that as soon as Hideaki was swayed by Tokugawa's sweet words, that the victory would go to the East. Chousokabe had been positioned to Motonari's right, and he watched the pirate fight with fresh vigor when he noticed their side was faltering. He ignored his wounds, and moved forward with determination towards Tokugawa's two female generals. Luck was not on his side though, and he was not able to close the gap between them before Tsuruhime's arrows rained down on him in clumps, but he did not stop even when his chest was peppered with shafts, almost looking like a young spruce. It took the legendary crow of Saika with all her skills to finally take him down. He fell with a bullet in his skull.
Motonari knew that he would soon suffer the same fate unless he called out of Tokugawa's mercy and surrendered then and there. But something about Chousokabe's final surge of fight moved something deep inside him, and he raced forward with his weapon held up.
When he woke in the plastic pod once more, his body ached all over, and his head wouldn't stop spinning. He wondered idly how much time had passed while he had spent weeks in his past life. An ache in his stomach where he did not remember being wounded suggested that that, at the very least, would have to be dealt with before he tried again. Groggily, his hands groped about on the sides of the pod, and it took several tries to finally get himself out of the strange, white, plastic casket and to the concrete below. With time, he was able to walk normally, and managed to make it across the dark room to where his jacket rested on a chair, only stumbling once. The pain had mostly faded when he picked up his jacket, now cold, and fumbled through the pockets for his phone. Sudden brightness blinded him for a moment, but he was able to see the date and the time. Minutes passed, and his brows furrowed in concentration. Eventually he gave up, accepting that if he could not remember what date he had first climbed into the pod, it was pointless to stare at the date on his phone.
He left his lab, catching the bus to his apartment on the other side of the city with an air of concentration. Distracting as his stomach may be, he needed to figure out what was wrong with his past self's plan. Perhaps he had not instilled enough fear in Hideaki, or he had placed his troops in the wrong location, having followed Ishida's orders instead of his own intuition. His attention was caught by a castle as he looked out the window. It was old, having been built in the early Edo period, and he had never paid it much attention before now, but of course it had been built for no other than the great Tokugawa Ieyasu. And it was then that it hit him—he was trying to change history too much. If he sided his forces with Ieyasu, he would fare much better, and perhaps even share in the spoils of the end of the Sengoku Era. He did not sleep well that night, instead staring blankly at the ceiling as schemes assembled and disassembled in his head.