Months had passed since that night.

The night when history itself cracked open in your bedroom, and a man thought lost to time stumbled gently into your world.

Akechi Mitsuhide—once a strategist of the Sengoku, a name buried in ink and rumor—now sat beside you on the couch, alive and quietly ordinary.

You had a book in your lap, fingers thumbing through worn pages. The chapter heading read The Battle of Yamazaki. Your eyes lingered over a familiar passage:

“Akechi Mitsuhide’s body was never found after the Battle of Yamazaki. Rumors say he was cut down by peasants; others claim he vanished, his true fate unknown.”

You paused, staring at the words longer than you meant to. Slowly, almost without thinking, your gaze drifted to the man beside you.

Mitsuhide sat with his back straight but relaxed, thin-framed glasses resting on his nose. His brow was faintly furrowed—not in frustration, but in quiet concentration as he tried to make sense of a modern newspaper. His dark hair, once bound beneath a helmet, now fell loosely over his shoulders, brushed clean and faintly scented with your shampoo. He wore a plain black t-shirt and gray sweatpants you’d picked out for him at Uniqlo.

The mighty samurai of legend looked like a tired man enjoying a slow morning.

You smiled, sinking deeper into the couch.

The first weeks had been… overwhelming. He’d approached the shower with deep caution, testing the water with his hand before stepping in, eyes wide at the sudden heat. Cooking had startled him at first—the hiss of oil, the roar of boiling water—but instead of drawing steel, he’d simply stepped back, embarrassed, murmuring apologies for overreacting. When you introduced him to the vacuum cleaner, he’d watched it carefully, then laughed quietly at himself for being wary.

You’d laughed too—softly, fondly—and he’d smiled, sheepish but amused, as though relieved that this strange new world could be learned without shame.

And slowly, it had been.

He learned how to fold laundry with careful hands, smoothing each crease as though it mattered. He swept floors with steady patience, brewed tea exactly how you liked it, and began cooking simple meals—never boasting, never claiming pride, but always watching your reaction with quiet hope.

When people asked about his name, he answered gently, almost playfully, “My parents named me after a general from the Sengoku period.” He would glance at you afterward, just briefly, as if sharing a private joke. You never corrected anyone.

He fit, in ways you hadn’t expected.

Your eyes drifted back to the book. His body was never found.

Of course it wasn’t.

You closed the book slowly, warmth spreading through your chest as you looked at him again. His body hadn’t been lost in the mud of Yamazaki. He hadn’t been torn apart by rumor or violence.

He was here. Sitting beside you, quietly reading a newspaper in a small apartment in 2025, carefully learning a world that no longer asked him to fight.

Your fingers tightened around the book.

“…Something troubling you?” he asked softly.

Mitsuhide turned toward you, gray eyes gentle behind his glasses, concern immediate but unpressing.

“Nothing,” you said, smiling. “Just… history.”

He studied your face for a moment, then nodded, accepting your answer without question. Setting the newspaper aside, he leaned back against the couch, close enough that your shoulders brushed. He said nothing—only shared the silence with you, warm and steady.

History might call him a traitor. A mystery. A man without a body.

But here, now, he was simply Mitsuhide—alive, learning, gentle beyond expectation.

And somehow, quietly, yours.