Nobunaga disappeared into the enclosure. Smoke rose from the cooking fires of the huge camp that encircled the foothills of Mount Hiei. As night fell, the wind freshened.  The temple bell that was usually heard from the Mii Temple was silent.

The sound of the conch shell reverberated on top of the hill, and the soldiers raised their battle cries in reply. The carnage lasted from that evening until dawn of the following day. The soldiers of the Oda army broke through the barricades the warrior-monks had built across the passes on the way to the summit.

Black smoke filled the valley, and flames howled through the mountain. Looking up from the foothills, one could see huge pillars of fire everywhere on Mount Hiei. Even the lake glowed a fiery red. The location of the biggest fire showed that the main temple was burning, as well as the seven shrines, the great lecture hall, the bell tower, the library, the monasteries, the treasure pagoda, the great pagoda, and all the minor temples. By dawn the following day not one temple was left standing.

The generals, who encouraged one another each time they looked up at the fearful sight, would recall Nobunaga's claim of having heaven's mandate and the blessing of Saint Dengyo, and urge themselves on. The apparent conviction of the generals inspired the troops. Making their way through the flames and black smoke, the attacking soldiers followed Nobunaga's orders to the letter. Eight thousand warrior-monks perished in an echo of the most horrible Buddhist hell. The monks who crawled through the valleys, hid in caves, or climbed trees trying to get away were hunted down and killed, like insects on rice plants.

Around midnight, Nobunaga himself climbed the mountain to see what his iron will had wrought. The monks of Mount Hiei had miscalculated. Even though they had been surrounded by Nobunaga's army, they had made light of the situation, thinking the show of force a pretentious bluff. They had vowed to wait until the Oda started to retreat, and then they had planned to pursue and destroy them. And they had sat by idly, their minds at ease because they received frequent letters of encouragement and reassurance from nearby Kyoto—which meant, of course, from the shogun.

For all the warrior-monks and their followers across the country, Mount Hiei had been the focal point of the opposition to Nobunaga. But the man who had incessantly supplied provisions and weapons to Mount Hiei and who had done his best to stir up the monks and urge them to fight was Shogun Yoshiaki.

"Shingen is coming!" So had promised a dispatch from Kai to the shogun. Yoshiaki had held on to this great expectation and had passed it on to Mount Hiei.

The warrior-monks, naturally enough, had faith that the army from Kai would attack Nobunaga's rear. When that happened, Nobunaga would have to retreat just as he had the year before at Nagashima. And there was one more thing. Because they had lived undisturbed for the past eight hundred years, the monks had underestimated the changes that had overtaken the country in recent years.

The mountain was transformed into an earthly hell in only half a night. A little too late, at about midnight, when flames were leaping everywhere, representatives of Mount Hiei, consumed with fear and panic, came to Nobunaga's camp to sue for peace.

"We'll give him whatever amount of money he wants, and we will agree to whatever conditions he sets."

Nobunaga only flashed a smile and spoke to those around him, as though he were throwing bait to a hawk. "There's no need to give them an answer. Just cut them down on the spot." Once more messengers came from the priests, and this time begged before No­bunaga himself. Nobunaga turned his head and had the monks killed.

Dawn broke. Mount Hiei was covered in the lingering smoke, ashes, and black withered trees, while everywhere corpses were frozen in the poses death had found them in.

Among these there must have been men of profound learning and wisdom, and the young monks of the future, thought Mitsuhide, who had been in the vanguard of the slaughter the night before. He stood this morning in the thin smoke, covering his face and feeling a pain in his breast.

That same morning, Mitsuhide had received Nobunaga's gracious command. "I'm putting you in charge of the district of Shiga. From now on you'll live in Sakamoto Castle, down in the foothills."

Two days later, Nobunaga descended the mountain and entered Kyoto. Black smoke still rose from Mount Hiei. Apparently quite a number of warrior-monks had fled to Kyoto to escape the carnage, and these men now spoke of him as though he were the in­carnation of evil.

“The man's a living demon king!"

"A messenger from hell!"

"He's an atrocious destroyer!"

The citizens of Kyoto were given a vivid description of Mount Hiei and the pitiful situation that night. Now, when they heard that Nobunaga was withdrawing his troops and heading down the mountain, they were shaken. The rumors flew:

"It's Kyoto's turn!"

"The shogun's palace will never be able to withstand a fire attack."

People shut their doors even though it was daytime, packed their belongings, and prepared to flee. Nobunaga's soldiers, however, bivouacked on the bank of the Kamo River and were forbidden to enter the city. The man who forbade this was the demon king who had commanded the attack on Mount Hiei. Accompanied by a small number of generals, he now went inside a temple. After taking off his armor and helmet and eat­ing a hot meal, he changed into an elegant court kimono and headdress and went out.

He rode a dappled horse with a gorgeous saddle. His generals remained in their armor and helmets. With these fourteen or fifteen men, he rode nonchalantly through the streets. The demon king was extraordinarily at peace, and smiled kindly at the people. The citizens spilled out onto the roadside and prostrated themselves as Nobunaga passed. Nothing was going to happen. They began to cheer, as relief spread across the city like a wave.

Suddenly the single report of a gun rang out from the cheering crowds. The bullet grazed Nobunaga, but he acted as though nothing had happened, and only turned to look in the direction of the report. The generals around him naturally leaped off their horses and rushed to capture the villain, but the city people, even more than the generals, were taken in a fit of anger, yelling out in a rage: "Get him!" The perpetrator, who had thought that the people of Kyoto would be on his side, had miscalculated, and now had no place to hide. He was a warrior-monk, said to be their very bravest, and he continued to pour abuse on Nobunaga even though he was pinned down.

"You're an enemy of the Buddha! The king of the demons!"

Nobunaga's expression did not change in the least. He rode to the Imperial Palace as planned, and dismounted. After washing his hands, he stepped calmly up to the gate of the palace and knelt.

"The raging fires of the night before last must have given Your Majesty some surprise. I hope you will forgive me for having caused you anxiety."

He knelt this way for a long time so that one might have thought that he felt this apology deep within his heart, but presently he looked up at the palace's new gate and walls, and then looked around in a satisfied way at the generals to his right and left.

It is unlawful to leave one's occupation.

Those who spread rumors or false reports will be put to death immediately.

Everything should remain as it has been.

By order of Oda Nobunaga, Chief Magistrate

When these three edicts had been posted throughout the city, Nobunaga returned to Gifu. He left without meeting with the shogun, who for some time had been busy deep­ening his moats, buying guns, and steeling himself for a fire attack. Heaving a sigh of re­lief, the residents of the shogun's palace were, however, filled with unease as they watched Nobunaga go.