I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

The Kajiya Hara Domain.

The land ruled by Daimyo Sadamasa.

Across Kastoria, it was known as the great forge of the realm. More weapons, armor, and tools of war were made there than anywhere else in the country. Swords, spears, breastplates, arrowheads, horse tack, shields, and iron fittings for armies all passed through its furnaces sooner or later. The entire domain seemed built around fire, steel, and labor.

From the moment one entered the town, the sound of work never stopped.

Hammers rang out in every direction, striking metal over and over until the air itself seemed to pulse with it. Sparks leaped from open forges. Men bent over anvils with sweat pouring down their faces while others hauled iron, carried coal, sharpened blades, or worked great bellows that fed the flames. Smoke drifted upward in heavy gray columns and hung over the streets like a second sky.

It was a brutally hot place.

Heat pressed in from every side, clinging to the skin and settling into the lungs. The smell of ash, soot, molten metal, and sweat filled every corner. Even the wind that passed through the town carried warmth with it, as though the whole domain had forgotten what cool air felt like.

Nobody came there for beauty.

There was little charm to be found in the endless pounding of steel and the smoke blackened buildings. It was not a place travelers visited for pleasure, nor a town anyone admired from afar. But for the people who lived there, admiration meant little compared to survival.

Most of the men had no real choice but to work the forge.

It was hard, thankless labor that wore down the body year after year, but it fed their families. The pay was poor, nowhere near enough for the weight of the work they did, yet Daimyo Sadamasa made sure they received food each day. That was what kept the system alive. It was exhausting, but it functioned. In a land where hunger could kill as surely as any blade, a full stomach was enough to keep men hammering iron from dawn until nightfall.

That afternoon, however, something unusual broke the rhythm of the town.

An ornate carriage rolled up to the entrance of the domain, drawn by a team of strong, well groomed horses whose coats gleamed despite the dust of the road. The carriage alone was enough to draw attention. Its lacquered wood, polished fittings, and expensive trim stood out sharply against the harsh, smoke stained world around it. It did not belong to ordinary travelers.

Workers lifted their heads as it passed.

A few slowed their hammering. Others turned openly to stare, wiping sweat from their brows with soot streaked arms. Curiosity flickered across tired faces, but no one dared step too close. Sadamasa’s men checked the carriage at the entrance, then allowed it through without delay.

After that, it continued deeper into the domain.

The carriage rolled through the forge town while blacksmiths and laborers watched it pass, their eyes following it through the smoky streets. They could not see much through the small openings, only a suggestion of movement within and the occasional glint of fine cloth. That alone was enough to tell them the people inside were important.

Eventually, the carriage reached Sadamasa’s castle.

The gates opened at once, and the vehicle passed through into the inner grounds before coming to a stop in front of the main entrance. A moment later, the mounted men who had escorted it dismounted in practiced unison. They wore thick red armor, well kept and heavy, the kind meant to impress as much as protect.

One of them moved to the carriage door and pulled it open.

A man stepped out.

He looked to be in his late twenties, handsome in a polished and carefully composed way, with a faint smile resting on his lips as though he found the world mildly amusing. He wore no obvious sign of haste or effort. His hakama and kimono were of fine quality, decorated with subtle ornaments that marked his status without needing to shout it. At his hip hung a katana whose craftsmanship was obvious at a glance. It was not merely a weapon. It was a statement.

He descended from the carriage and slowly looked around.

The smile on his face faded almost at once.

”It smells terrible here,” he said with open distaste.

”I welcome you, Urakami sama.”

The voice came from behind him.

The visitor turned and found a young man standing there to receive him. His posture was formal, though there was tension in the set of his shoulders.

It was Prince Yasumasa, Sadamasa’s only son.

Urakami looked at him with mild curiosity. ”And you are?”

”I am Yasumasa,” the young man replied, placing a hand against his chest. ”Son of Daimyo Sadamasa.”

Urakami’s gaze drifted downward then paused on Yasumasa’s right arm.

It hung stiffly at his side, wrapped in bandages, attached but useless. The arm had been severed once and later reattached, but it no longer moved as it should. The wound had healed as well as could be expected, yet the damage remained plain to see.

A certain black haired ronin had done that to him.

The moment Urakami understood what he was looking at, a sneer touched his mouth.

He said nothing about it. He simply walked past Yasumasa with that same faint expression of contempt, as if the prince had already told him everything he needed to know.

Yasumasa’s jaw tightened.

For an instant, anger flashed in his eyes, hot and humiliated, but he swallowed it. He could not afford to lash out here. Not against this man.

Urakami was the chief of the Urakami Samurai Clan.

His clan was not counted among the three great samurai houses of the land, but it was still a respected and dangerous force, large enough to matter and strong enough that few treated it lightly. He commanded many soldiers, and today he stood in Sadamasa’s castle not as a subordinate, but as a guest being courted.

So Yasumasa endured.

He turned and led Urakami and his red armored men into the castle.

As they walked through the halls, Urakami let his eyes wander over everything with thinly veiled mockery. The architecture, the banners, the stonework, the arrangement of the corridors, all of it seemed to amuse him in some private and insulting way. He did not need to speak his thoughts aloud. His face said enough. His soldiers were little better, casting smirking looks around them as they followed.

Yasumasa noticed every one of them.

Still, he forced himself to remain silent and continued to lead them deeper into the castle until at last they arrived before the throne room.

The doors were opened.

Inside, the chamber spread wide and dignified beneath high beams and polished wood. Much of it had been rebuilt recently, and though traces of that could still be sensed by anyone paying close attention, the room held itself well. It had been restored with care and with pride. At the far end, upon his seat of authority, sat Daimyo Sadamasa.

The moment he saw Urakami enter, he rose.

”Welcome, Urakami dono,” Sadamasa said.

Urakami regarded him for a moment, then gave the smallest tilt of his head.

”So you are Daimyo Sadamasa.”

The insolence in his tone was impossible to miss.

One of Sadamasa’s soldiers immediately stepped forward, hand tightening around his weapon. ”You will show respect to Daimyo sama.”

Before the tension could rise any further, Sadamasa lifted a hand and stopped him.

Urakami smiled slightly, amused by the reaction.

For a few seconds, the room held stillness like a blade pressed flat against the throat. Then Urakami spoke again, his voice smooth and casual.

”Shall we discuss business, Daimyo? You promised us weapons.”

”Yes,” Sadamasa replied evenly. ”I did.”

His gaze sharpened as he looked at the clan chief.

”But I trust you have not forgotten what I demanded in return.”

Urakami chuckled softly, as though the matter pleased him.

”No, I have not forgotten.”

His smile widened just a little.

”I will provide the army and lead it myself.”

Then his eyes turned cold.

”And I will rid you of that pathetic Daimyo, Norihiro.”