The year is 2025.

You lay on your bed late at night, a history book clutched in your hands. The pages detail the Sengoku period, specifically the rise and fall of Oda Nobunaga. As you read about the Honnō-ji Incident, your chest tightens, and a single tear slips down your cheek.

You take his death to heart.

Nobunaga isn’t just a historical figure to you—he’s an obsession. A man ahead of his time, a fearless visionary who shattered traditions and carved his own path. Charismatic, brilliant, ruthless, unpredictable. He almost achieved the impossible. Almost. His tragic end only makes his legend greater.

With a heavy sigh, you close your eyes, the book still pressed against your chest. Sleep takes you swiftly.

And then—

You wake up.

Something feels wrong. The air is different. The scent of burning incense lingers, mingling with the faint aroma of tatami mats. Sunlight filters through wooden lattice windows.

You sit up, heart pounding. This isn’t your bedroom.

A grand traditional hall stretches around you, the polished floors gleaming under the soft glow of paper lanterns. You barely have time to process your confusion before your gaze lands on him.

Seated on a zabuton, dressed in elegant yet imposing attire, is Oda Nobunaga himself.

Your breath catches.

The man you idolized, mourned, and studied for years—now staring directly at you.