Chapter 7 – Challenge from Saeko Busujima!
The intense gaze from the violet-haired girl made Yukinoshita Akira sigh inwardly.
He knew that look all too well.
Aiz Wallenstein once stared at him like that back in Orario.
As if reading his discomfort, the corners of Saeko Busujima's lips curled slightly. She was certain now—her instincts hadn't failed her.
"Busujima-san, don't you think... bringing this up in a place like this is kind of... inappropriate?"
"Hmm? What do you mean?"
She glanced around, confused.
And just like that, as her sharp eyes swept across the dojo, every single person immediately lowered their heads—or quickly averted their gaze.
Even the bald student beside them turned away faster than lightning, avoiding her eyes completely.
This was the kind of presence Saeko Busujima commanded within the Kendo Club.
They all admired her. Idolized her. Followed her without question. And yet, not a single person dared to meet her eyes.
It wasn't fear in the conventional sense. It was the quiet understanding that they were simply too far beneath her.
The difference in skill between them and her was so vast, so unreachable, that it created an invisible wall.
Akira covered his face with one hand, not even sure how to respond anymore.
This girl—this elegant, mature, violet-haired swordswoman—was a natural airhead.
"Busujima-san, allow me to properly introduce myself. My name is Yukinoshita Akira. As for your challenge... I'm sorry, but I don't know anything about Kendo. So I think we should just drop it."
"Yukinoshita Akira? Are you... the adopted son of that Yukinoshita family?"
"Uh... unless there's another guy with the same name, yeah. That's probably me."
"Ah, I didn't mean it like that... I'm sorry if it came off as rude..."
Saeko quickly realized her slip-up.
In this country—still deeply rooted in patriarchal customs—a man's pride was a fragile thing.
Calling someone an "adopted son" or a "kept son-in-law" could be taken as a serious insult, even if the family in question was as prominent as the Yukinoshitas.
"It's fine. It's the truth, after all."
"In that case... how about this? If you accept my challenge, I'll grant you one request—so long as it isn't unreasonable."
"Not unreasonable, huh..."
That phrase was far too vague. After all, what did "unreasonable" even mean to someone like her?
Judging from the stares he was getting now from all sides, Akira had a strong feeling that if looks could kill, he'd already be ash.
"So you're not going to give up until I agree, are you?"
"Correct. I'm asking you—please, fight me."
Her determination was unmistakable. She looked like a lone wolf challenging a tiger. Even knowing full well the difference in power, she chose to fight anyway.
"Alright then. Coincidentally, I also have something I'd like to confirm... through this fight."
"Thank you."
The daughter of the Busujima family, the Kendo Club's captain and undisputed ace, bowed her head respectfully to an ordinary-looking boy.
It was an image completely out of place—and yet, no one dared laugh.
"Let's begin, then."
Akira stepped into the club's training ring. The students practicing there quickly cleared the area.
They didn't understand Saeko's reasoning, but they would never shame their captain—not even in front of an outsider they disliked.
Even to the boy they now secretly loathed, they showed the respect due between swordsmen.
Akira walked over to the equipment rack and picked up a bokutō.
Calling it a "wooden sword" might've been a stretch—it looked more like a toy than an actual weapon.
Still... though Akira had never formally learned Kendo, he carried something far beyond basic training.
He was the heir to the power of Tsugikuni Yoriichi—the first wielder of Breathing Techniques.
And along with that, he possessed a divine gift:
Swordmastery: Divine Path.
It wasn't just a talent. It was a blessing—a mark given only to those favored by the gods.
There were people who trained their entire lives and still never reached Rome.
And then... there were those who were simply born there.
The gap between people wasn't always something logic could explain.
The moment Akira gripped the bokutō, a strange feeling washed over him.
It felt... familiar. As if the sword wasn't just a tool, but an extension of his body.
A part of him.
And at that very instant, the entire atmosphere in the dojo shifted.
Just moments ago, he'd looked like an ordinary student. Harmless. Passive.
But now, standing with a sword in his hand—he was someone else entirely.
A dangerous aura radiated from him, pressing down on everyone present.
The realization hit all at once.
Their captain wasn't joking. She hadn't been deceived. She saw what they couldn't.
This boy—was the real deal.
A true swordsman.
"Busujima-ryu, Saeko Busujima."
As she stepped onto the ring, Saeko bowed gracefully, formally introducing her name and sword school.
"Yukinoshita Akira. My style... is my own."
"My style."
A self-made school. An original path forged by its user.
In this country, such swordsmen were called "personal-style users." And while not unheard of, they were far from common.
After all, every sword school began as someone's personal style.
The only difference was time—and whether others followed it.
But to declare one's own style... meant more than just technique. It required mastery. Accomplishment. And unshakable confidence.
"In that case... I'll go first, Akira-kun."
In Japanese culture, using someone's given name was a sign of closeness. But Saeko sensed something.
She could tell he didn't like the name "Yukinoshita." So, instead, she called him Akira.
Maybe it was just a woman's intuition. Or perhaps... the budding signs of something deeper.
To Akira, "Yukinoshita" was nothing more than a name imposed by the system.
His true name was Akira. And he wasn't originally from this world to begin with.
So he didn't really care how others addressed him.
A sharp gust of air suddenly sliced through the silence.
A flash of motion.
Without warning, Saeko moved.
Her attack wasn't meant to show off. It was raw, efficient, precise.
Everything she had—her reputation, her career, her pride—was built on real strength.
And now, without hesitation, she swung her bokutō straight at Akira's head.
In standard Kendo matches, vital areas like the head were often avoided. These were sports matches, not life-and-death duels.
But this was different.
Saeko aimed for the head not out of carelessness—but out of trust.
Trust in her instincts.
To Akira, the strike wasn't threatening. He could block it—easily.
Clack—!
Their swords collided in a clean impact.
The wooden blades let out a sharp crack, and Akira was pushed back several steps.
After all, his current body hadn't fully merged with the strength of his inherited template—less than even 0.1% of its potential.
Physically, he was still human. Still ordinary.
Saeko's power was real. Her strike had weight.
But even so—thanks to perfect technique—Akira managed to deflect the blow without taking its full force.
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