Episode 18 of our Samurai Words blog series explores a quiet yet powerful lesson from one of Japan’s greatest feudal lords: Hōjō Ujiyasu. The grandson of legendary strategist Hōjō Sōun and the third head of his clan, Ujiyasu was both a skilled military leader and a capable administrator, admired by commoners and feared by rivals like Takeda Shingen and Uesugi Kenshin. But his most telling moment wasn’t on the battlefield—it was at the dining table. A simple act by his son Ujimasa prompted a harsh comment from Ujiyasu that, in hindsight, foretold the fall of their dynasty. This episode explores how the smallest habits can reveal the deepest flaws.

“Pour soup over rice twice—and you’ll ruin the nation.”

Hōjō Ujiyasu was the grandson of Hōjō Sōun, the hero of the early Sengoku era, and served as the third head of the Hōjō clan established by Sōun.

The saying goes that “the third generation destroys the family,” but Ujiyasu was an exception. He was a formidable commander, able to stand toe‑to‑toe with Takeda Shingen and Uesugi Kenshin, and he was also an excellent ruler admired as “the most capable administrator among the Sengoku daimyō.”

Although Sōun had many worthy descendants, Ujiyasu held low expectations for his own son. One day, after observing Ujimasa — who would later become the fourth head of the clan — having his meal, he said:

“Ujimasa poured broth onto his rice twice. He does not know how much is needed the first time. A man who cannot judge even that cannot judge people, and without sound judgment one cannot gather good retainers. A man who pours broth twice onto his rice will bring down a domain.”

Those present laughed, saying he was overreacting to something as trivial as broth. But Ujiyasu’s intuition proved right: the Hōjō clan began to falter under Ujimasa and eventually fell during the rule of his son, Ujinao.

Ujiyasu’s insight into people was accurate even when directed at his own son.

In the eyes of a samurai lord, even mealtime habits held meaning. Ujiyasu’s critique of his son might seem harsh, but he saw in it a reflection of flawed decision-making—fatal for a ruler. History proved him right. The decline of the Hōjō family under Ujimasa showed that leadership requires more than lineage; it demands discernment. Ujiyasu’s insight reminds us that great leaders pay attention to the details others miss.

In the turbulent Sengoku era, Date Masamune rose as one of the boldest and most iconic leaders of his time. Known as the “One-Eyed Dragon,” he stood out not only for his military ambition but for his willingness to act decisively. This episode explores a quote that captures his fearless, results-driven mindset — a stark contrast to the overcautious attitudes common in warfare.

Strike before hesitation sets in: The samurai strategy of decisive action

During Japan’s Sengoku era, Date Masamune — the ambitious warlord from the Tōhoku region — earned several nicknames. The most famous is “Dokuganryū” (the One-Eyed Dragon), but another widely known title was “the man of decisive action”.

Kadan means to take action boldly and without hesitation. Masamune was known to say:

“When people try to do something, they worry: ‘What if this happens?’ or ‘What if that’s dangerous?’ But what’s the point of all that? Things may seem determined, but they really aren’t. Instead of stressing over an uncertain future, it’s better to focus on what’s right in front of you. In war, surprise attacks often lead to victory. Taking action without delay is the mark of a truly brave commander.”

Masamune defied many conventions of his era — like sending his retainers all the way to Rome. That too showed his bold spirit.

He lived well into the era of the third shōgun, Tokugawa Iemitsu. His farewell poem says a lot about how he lived:

“The cloudless moon of my heart is my guide, casting light on the darkness of this sorrowful world as I set out on my journey.”

Masamune’s approach, act fast, act boldly, still resonates as a model for modern leadership. Whether through international diplomacy or his poetic farewell, he lived with purpose and consistency. His words remain a powerful lesson: in moments of uncertainty, action and resolve matter more than fear and hesitation.

Among Japan’s most powerful warlords, Toyotomi Hideyoshi may have been the most human of them all.
After uniting the nation through force and diplomacy, he died in 1598 leaving a message that was more of a plea than a command: “I entrust Hideyori to you.”
Those words, spoken three times, show the father behind the conqueror — and signaled the beginning of the Toyotomi clan’s fall and the rise of the Tokugawa era.

A dying ruler’s plea that changed Japan’s destiny

In August 1598, during the third year of the Keichō era, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, bedridden and aware that death was near, called the great daimyō Tokugawa Ieyasu, Maeda Toshiie, Mōri Terumoto, and others to his bedside and gave them his final words:

“I entrust Hideyori to you. I entrust Hideyori to you. I entrust Hideyori to you.”

Hideyori, born when Hideyoshi was already past fifty, was only five years old at the time. Hideyoshi loved his son deeply and worried for him until his last moments.
But contrary to his hopes, these dying words led to the weakening of the Toyotomi clan’s influence.

For a man who had unified the nation, his testament was seen as too emotional and lacking in strength.
People said, “We understand a father’s love, but these sound like the confused words of a dying man,” and many lost faith in him.
Perhaps Hideyoshi himself felt the same deep down.

After all, he had once said:

“One should never make a will when gravely ill. The mind grows clouded, and you end up saying things you shouldn’t. It’s something to be very careful about.”

Hideyoshi’s final message wasn’t about power; it was about love, loss, and trust.
The man who built a nation came to understand the limits of human strength.
What many saw as weakness now feels profoundly human — even a great warrior and ruler must one day let go.

The idea of the samurai who never backs down, who’d rather die than retreat, was shaped during the Edo period and later cemented in the Meiji Restoration.
It became a key piece of nationalist propaganda during Japan’s imperial era.
But in the real world of the Sengoku period, samurai retreated, escaped, or negotiated when it made sense.
Hori Hidemasa’s actions offer a perfect example: through smart psychological tactics, he captured a castle without even drawing his sword.
It’s a story that reveals not only his strategic brilliance but also the practical, flexible mindset of real warriors.

The Samurai Who Didn’t Need a Sword: Strategy Wins Over Combat

The ancient Chinese strategist Sun Tzu once said, “A general who wins without fighting is greater than one who wins a hundred battles.”
One Japanese commander who lived by this idea was Hori Hidemasa, a samurai who served under Toyotomi Hideyoshi. The following story has been passed down about him.

In 1587 (the 15th year of the Tenshō era), Hidemasa was appointed as the vanguard commander during the campaign to conquer Kyūshū.
After securing several castles in the initial battles, he gathered the enemy troops he had taken prisoner and told them:

“We’ve come all the way to Kyūshū, but your allies run away so quickly that we’re constantly chasing after them with no time to rest.
When you return to your castles, try to defend them for at least three days. That way, while we lay siege, our soldiers and horses can rest for a bit too. Sound good? I’m counting on you.”

The prisoners went back to their castles and repeated Hidemasa’s words exactly as they had heard them.
The defenders then thought:
“Wow, those enemies are incredibly confident.”
“There’s no way we can beat people so calm.”
Panicked, they abandoned the castle.

That’s how Hori Hidemasa captured the fortress—without a single battle.

Hidemasa’s story strips away the myth of the unbending samurai.
It shows that strength isn’t always about standing firm — sometimes it’s about knowing when not to fight.
In war, as in life, winning without conflict can be the highest form of mastery.
And that’s what Hidemasa achieved: a victory not through violence, but through cleverness and calm.

In the Bakumatsu era (1853–1868), Japan went through a period of political and cultural turmoil unlike any before. The arrival of Commodore Perry’s “Black Ships” in 1853—marking the entry of Western powers into East Asia—exposed young Japanese to how far their nation had fallen behind the modern world. That awakening inspired a generation of idealists, known as shishi (志士), who sought to build a “new Japan” free from isolation and ready to embrace modernization.

Among the most prominent of these reformers was Sakamoto Ryōma (1836–1867), a visionary samurai from Tosa domain. Though he died young at 31, Ryōma played a pivotal role in the political changes that culminated in the return of political authority to the Emperor (taisei hōkan) and the end of Tokugawa rule.

The phrase featured in this episode was written by Ryōma in a letter to his sister Otome. It encapsulates his vision of radical reform: “I wish to wash Japan once more” (日本を今一度洗濯いたし申候). Now a well-known expression, it symbolized his aim to cleanse the nation of its flaws and prepare it for a new era.

“Clean the Nation”: The Powerful Message Behind Ryōma’s Famous Words

In the final days of the Edo period, many young people, awakened to the reality of the world by Perry’s “black ships,” travelled tirelessly across Japan with a single goal: to build a “new Japan.”

One phrase they often repeated was:

「世に生を得るは事を成すにあり」
“To live in this world is to achieve something.”

In other words: “Since we were born into this world, let’s do something great!”
Such was the fervor and spirit of the time.

Sakamoto Ryōma was one of those men of spirit—shishi—who breathed this same air. He too was dreaming big.

In a letter to his older sister Otome, Ryōma once wrote:

「日本を今一度洗濯いたし申候」
“I shall wash Japan once again.”

This “cleansing of Japan” was, to Ryōma, the great purpose of his life.

In December 1867, Ryōma died at the young age of 31. Many said his death came too soon.

But thanks to the Taisei Hōkan—the return of power to the Emperor—that he helped orchestrate, the “cleansing of Japan” was already nearly complete.

Ryōma had achieved his goal.

Sakamoto Ryōma’s words weren’t just symbolic—they reflected a clear political intent and a desire to reshape Japan from the ground up. His call to “wash the country clean” revealed a sharp awareness of the flaws in the feudal order and a hope for a modern, fair society. Despite dying young, Ryōma undeniably “got something done” (事を成す), and his impact on history remains powerful. His legacy continues to inspire those who believe real change comes through conviction, courage, and action.

In our last episode, we highlighted the noble and idealistic side of Uesugi Kenshin — the warlord who famously sent salt to his rival out of fairness, embodying the principle of “justice beyond power”.

But as we hinted, history isn’t shaped by ideals alone. Kenshin, like any real person, had many sides — some admirable, others more complex. In this week’s entry, we revisit the “Dragon of Echigo” to reveal a different side of his legacy, as captured by the sharp, provocative voice of author Sakaguchi Ango.

Ango challenges our notions of “honor,” suggesting that behind noble causes often lies a raw enjoyment of war. It’s a bold perspective, but one that forces us to question not just Kenshin’s image, but the very nature of those who live for the battlefield.

Uesugi Kagekatsu and the Heritage of Uesugi Kenshin

In his novel “A Second-Rate Man”, author Sakaguchi Ango (1906-1955) depicts the “Tiger of Echigo,” Uesugi Kenshin, in harsh terms:
“He talks about noble causes and imperial loyalty, but it’s all nonsense. What he really loves is the thrill of battle.”
He even calls Kenshin and his disciple Uesugi Kagekatsu members of the “decadent war faction,” who use justice as an excuse to enjoy war.

This opinion isn’t popular among Kenshin enthusiasts. Still, the Uesugi clan may have had such a side. A story about Kenshin’s heir, Uesugi Kagekatsu, illustrates this.

During the siege of rebel Shibata Shigeie’s castle, a retainer captured enemy soldiers and reported, “They were trying to bring food into the fortress.”
Kagekatsu is said to have replied:

“It’s easy to kill them, but that would be immature. Spare them, give them the supplies, and let them go back inside. Beating a strong enemy—that’s what really feels good.”

Like Kenshin and Kanetsugu, Kagekatsu seemed to find a kind of pleasure in warfare.

Ironically, once the soldiers returned to their stronghold, their comrades suspected them of being spies for Kagekatsu and killed them.

Uesugi Kagekatsu, the spiritual successor to Uesugi Kenshin, gives us a candid look at a lesser-acknowledged yet profoundly sincere side of the samurai mindset: the desire to fight strong enemies, not necessarely out of cruelty, but to make victory truly worthwhile. His words express pride and determination, reflecting a warrior’s code.

Once again, the samurai spirit reminds us that honour isn’t always noble and clean — it’s complicated, demanding, and deeply human.

In this twelfth installment of our series exploring the words and deeds of legendary samurai, we begin a short two-part focus on one of the most influential figures of the Sengoku period: Uesugi Kenshin, the “Tiger of Echigo.” Renowned both for his military prowess and his uncompromising moral character, Kenshin stands out as a singular figure. This first article presents a key testimony highlighting his sense of justice and his devotion to the principle of giri (moral obligation), even in a time when power often ruled over principle. Next week, we’ll share a second perspective to further illuminate this remarkable daimyō.

Praise from an Enemy: Hōjō Ujiyasu’s Words

While the Sengoku period was undeniably a violent era soaked in blood, it was also a time that gave rise to many remarkable individuals. One of the most unique among them was Uesugi Kenshin, known as the “Tiger of Echigo.” Unlike most daimyō of his era, Kenshin remained unmarried for his entire life.

The story of Kenshin “sending salt” to his rival Takeda Shingen is still told today as a tale of virtue. Even his contemporaries held his character in high regard. Hōjō Ujiyasu, who competed with Kenshin for dominance in the Kantō region, once said:

“Takeda Shingen and Oda Nobunaga are men of two faces—you never know when they’ll betray you. But Kenshin, once he makes a promise, will never break it, even in death.”

Regarding the idea of giri (moral obligation), Kenshin himself said:

“Lords usually evaluate retainers by their performance in battle. But distinguishing yourself in combat is a given for any warrior. I value more the one who maintains proper conduct and acts with integrity.”

For Kenshin, duty mattered more than military glory. Even in an age where might often meant right, there were men like him.

Uesugi Kenshin stands out as a rare figure among the warlords of the Sengoku period—a man who placed justice and moral integrity at the heart of his political and military actions. In an age marked by betrayal and power struggles, his steadfast commitment to the ideal of giri remains a powerful example of personal honour. In our next article, we’ll explore a different perspective to further understand what made Kenshin a legend.

This eleventh episode of the “Words of the Samurai” series focuses on a lesser-known yet revealing anecdote about Yamamoto Kansuke, the famed strategist of the Takeda clan. Before becoming Takeda Shingen’s top military advisor, Kansuke was a wandering rōnin. It was his unusual way of describing Japan that ultimately caught the attention of his future lord.

During the Sengoku period, many rōnin (masterless samurai) traveled from one province to another in search of employment under a feudal lord.

Yamamoto Kansuke, later known as the “military advisor of Takeda Shingen,” was originally one such rōnin. It is said that during his time without a master, he traveled throughout Japan—from the north in Tōhoku to the southern island of Kyūshū.

At the time, the most valuable “asset” that rōnin could present when seeking a position was the information they had gathered during their travels across various regions. In an age without modern media, news from distant provinces was highly prized by feudal lords.

There are those who can’t see the bigger picture

Kansuke was welcomed into the Takeda clan precisely because of his vast store of knowledge. However, what truly captured Shingen’s interest was the extremely vague nature of Kansuke’s reports, which differed from those of other rōnin.

It is said that at their first meeting, Kansuke told Shingen:

“From Mikawa Province eastward, everything is more or less the same and can be considered one whole. From Owari to Izumi as well. Even Shikoku, Chūgoku, and Kyūshū are essentially the same and can be treated as one.”

Shingen’s vassals laughed upon hearing this:

“Hey, hey… what a vague and strange thing to say!”

But Shingen did not laugh.

Rather, after listening carefully, he thought to himself:

“This man is viewing the whole of Japan as one. That’s why he does not dwell on details. If we let him go and he ends up serving another lord, it could spell serious trouble for us.”

At that time, Kansuke was fifty years old. Takeda Shingen was twenty-two.

Yamamoto Kansuke’s strength did not lie only in martial arts or swordsmanship, but in his ability to grasp Japan as a unified, strategic whole. This long-range vision was a crucial element of his later success as one of the most respected minds in the service of the Takeda clan.

According to the most reliable sources, Katsuie was under siege by the Rokkaku clan. The castle’s water supply was nearly exhausted, and the hope of survival was fading. It was then that Katsuie, knowing that any chance of resistance depended on the morale of his men, made a radical decision: he gathered the soldiers, ordered the destruction of the last water jars, and spoke these memorable words.

Only one shot

「水は土に還ったぞ 我らも土に還るまでじゃ」
“Mizu wa tsuchi ni kaetta zo. Warera mo tsuchi ni kaeru made ja.”
“The water has returned to the earth. We too shall return to the earth… when the time comes.”

This phrase condenses an awareness of death, a determination to fight to the last breath, and a calm acceptance of fate. The act of destroying the remaining water containers was deeply symbolic – a deliberate choice to sever all ties to the idea of surrender. There was no turning back: only the fight remained, and the honor of dying in battle.

The phrase became so famous that it earned Shibata Katsuie the nickname “Kamewari Shibata” (Shibata who broke the jars). His spirit became legendary: though initially at a disadvantage, his army fought back with such determination that they defeated the enemy and turned the tide of battle.

In a time when the line between life and death was always thin, words like those of Shibata Katsuie were not mere rhetoric – they were declarations of faith in the bushidō, the warrior’s code of honor.
Even today, centuries later, his words speak to us of sacrifice, of courage born from acceptance, and of the will to fight on despite everything.

This week’s quote stands out for two reasons: it was not spoken by a samurai, and it belongs to the category of jisei (辞世) – phrases or poems uttered before death.
Yet, in its clarity and strength, the jisei of Ishikawa Goemon, a legendary thief from the late Sengoku period, reflects a determination and awareness of fate that rivals the spirit of the bushi.
Ishikawa Goemon (?-1594) was a real historical figure.
Though today remembered as a Japanese Robin Hood, historical sources portray a more ambiguous image: Goemon was likely a clever, feared outlaw.

His grave is located at the Daiunin temple in Kyoto, where he was posthumously given the high-ranking name Yūsen’in Ryōgaku Jukan Zenjōmon—perhaps a tribute to the myth surrounding him.

The Last Words of Ishikawa Goemon

“Even if the grains of sand on the shores of Ishikawa and Hama disappear, thieves will never vanish from this world.”

A defiant and self-aware phrase, traditionally attributed to Goemon, underlining how transgression has always been part of human nature.

Historical accounts are scarce and intertwined with legend. One of the most iconic images of Goemon comes from the kabuki play Sanmon Gosan no Kiri, where he gazes at cherry blossoms from the Nanzen-ji temple gate and declares:

“What a view! What a view! A spring evening is worth a thousand ryō? How cheap, how cheap!”

Here, Goemon mocks Toyotomi Hideyoshi, the era’s ruler, embodying the rebellious spirit loved by commoners.

Many theories exist about his origins: some say he was a fallen noble from Tango province, others suggest he was a defector from the Iga ninja school after a forbidden affair. None have been proven historically.

The image of a “hero of the poor” belongs more to Edo-period literature and theatre than documented fact. According to contemporary sources, Goemon exploited the absence of troops during Hideyoshi’s military campaigns to loot urban centers.

He is also linked to a plot: Toyotomi Hidetsugu, Hideyoshi’s nephew and designated heir, is said to have hired Goemon to assassinate his uncle. The attempt failed, and the network of conspirators was uncovered.

For this assassination attempt, Hideyoshi had Goemon executed alongside his mother and son in the public square of Sanjōgawara in Kyoto, turning the punishment into a public spectacle.
The sentence was exemplary and helped cement Goemon’s legend as the man who dared to challenge the highest authority of his time.

Goemon today: between pop culture and collective memory

Despite his tragic end, the name Ishikawa Goemon lives on in legend.
Beyond classical theatre, he inspired iconic figures in Japanese pop culture, such as Goemon Ishikawa XIII, the silent, stoic swordsman from the Lupin III series.
Dressed in traditional attire and wielding a deadly shirasaya, this character embodies the ideal legacy of a timeless samurai: elegant, determined, bound to a personal code.

In him lives on Goemon: a rebel, perhaps a hero—undoubtedly a symbol.