Japan's power structure is quite fascinating. The Emperor nominally rules the entire country, but his decrees hold little weight—few actually obey the Emperor. Similarly, while the shogunate effectively controls Japan, its authority ultimately relies on military intimidation to force regional lords (daimyo) to comply with its orders.
If a particularly stubborn daimyo resists, it becomes a test of strength: whether the shogunate’s fist is harder than the daimyo’s defiance. If the shogunate prevails, it can eliminate the disobedient lord. If not, its commands are just as meaningless as the Emperor’s.
Of course, these daimyo don’t have full control over their own territories either. Their rule depends on samurai, while lower-ranking foot soldiers (ashigaru) serve mostly as decoration, far less important than the warrior class.
As for those samurai—those with masters are called retainers; those without are called rōnin. Retainers help their lords maintain local rule, while masterless rōnin care nothing for others’ lives, focusing only on their own survival.
In short, Japan—glorified beyond reason by hopeless idealists—isn’t so different from India. India has castes; Japan has rigid social stratification.
For example, why do rōnin remain unemployed rather than seek work?
It’s not that they don’t want to. Their status as former samurai forbids them from taking up any other profession, even if living as rōnin leaves them worse off than commoners.
This absurd hierarchy makes rōnin a major destabilizing force. With piracy no longer an option (as they dare not become wokou), limited overseer positions available in Ming China, and mercenary armies in India and the Ottoman Empire controlled by the shogunate, rōnin stranded in Japan—unable to find new lords—must fend for themselves.
Take a simple case: If the Tōjō and Mōri clans clash, and the Mōri lose, their former samurai may become rōnin. Barred from employment and without income, their only recourse is raiding Tōjō lands—preying on peasants and outcasts. The Tōjō’s own retainers will retaliate, but rōnin mobility makes eradication impossible, inevitably destabilizing the region.
This means Tokugawa Ienari must eliminate the rōnin to fully enforce his blockade.
After securing pledges of cooperation from various daimyo, Ienari solemnly declared, “Next, the shogunate will dispatch forces to suppress the roaming rōnin. I trust you will all lend your full support?”
Shimazu Hisamitsu of Satsuma Domain was the first to respond: “Your Excellency may rest assured. Satsuma will commit as many samurai and ashigaru as possible to assist in this campaign.”
Yet once Satsuma voiced its support, the other lords frowned.
(Repeated sections omitted for brevity—content reiterates Japan’s feudal hierarchy, rōnin instability, and Ienari’s call for collective action against them.)
In the end, the shogunate’s power hinges on the same brutal calculus: strength determines obedience. Without purging the rōnin—the wild cards of this fractured system—Tokugawa’s “complete blockade” remains an illusion.
And so, beneath the veneer of unity, each daimyo calculates. Some, like Satsuma, see opportunity in cooperation. Others weigh the costs of compliance against the shogunate’s waning grip.
The game continues. Only the rōnin, with nothing left to lose, play by no rules at all.