In the year 1169, before the gates of the Imperial Palace in Heian-kyo, several thousand souls stood poised for a confrontation that would define the era’s shifting hegemony. On one side, the avalanche of armed monks—the sohei—descended from the ancient heights of Mount Hiei, representing the old order. On the other stood the Taira clan, led by Taira no Kiyomori, a man who had woven his warrior lineage into the very fabric of the Court.
Yet, perhaps the conclusion was already etched in the stars. For all their fearsome reputation, the monks of Hiei were essentially a specialized religious militia, trained within the confines of a temple. Their intent was to intimidate, not to annihilate. They could not hope to prevail against the Taira—a collective of professionals whose sole vocation was the art of war, who had forged their dominion through actual bloodshed and successive victories across the provinces. The reality of the armed monks was that of monks emboldened by religious authority, acting out a riotous fervor within the safety of Hiei’s communal illusion. While they had engaged in minor skirmishes with rival sects, their experience in true combat paled before the grim resolve of the Taira.
The power structure of Mount Hiei—a fabrication that had served as the driving force behind the very construction of Heian-kyo—found its tides abruptly turned by the emergence of the Taira, the harbingers of a new age who made violence their life’s work. This was the moment that signaled the decline of Mount Hiei and, more broadly, the stifling of the Heian period itself. The intricate system built over centuries by the nobility, the Imperial family, and the monks of Hiei began to crumble. Those who had found solace in regarding a small corner of Kyoto as the entire world were suddenly forced to confront the real—a force that exists indifferent to the boundaries of any system. This is the inevitable rhythm of the death of a civilization.
Thus, we enter the tumultuous 1170s. The year 1177 became the symbolic threshold of this transition. Even as their hegemony slipped away, Mount Hiei clung to the vestiges of their vanishing privileges, refusing to acknowledge that the pulse of power had moved into the hands of the new warrior class. To hold dominion for centuries does not guarantee its permanence; the artifice of even the most formidable system can dissolve in a heartbeat. Today, the world faces a parallel crisis, where the old powers display the same unsightly attachment to the past as the monks of Hiei once did, unable to accept that the center of gravity has shifted. Such conclusions are always mercilessly cruel.
Lacking the vision to discern the changing times, the monks of Hiei once again mobilized thousands for a direct petition. It was evident that they had lost the capacity for original action, falling back on tired precedents. Eight years prior, in 1169, they had attempted the same intimidation, only to flee in disgrace. Faced with the murderous intent and overwhelming presence of the Taira warriors, the monks had abandoned their sacred palanquins—the mikoshi that symbolized Hiei’s divine authority—and retreated. Despite this total defeat, they remained trapped in the repetition of their old ways.
It seemed the ruin of Mount Hiei was certain. Yet, history took a peculiar turn—one that, in a sense, preserved Hiei to this day. This pivot was driven by the erratic excesses of the Cloistered Emperor Go-Shirakawa, whose dependence on dictatorial power grew increasingly volatile.