Both Gojo and Yamashiro entered the dojo. Inside, a sparring match was already underway between two disciples, their wooden swords clashing sharply against each other. Yamashiro didn't interrupt. Instead, he stood to the side with Gojo, waiting silently for the match to end. The rhythmic thuds of feet on the wooden floor and the swish of blades filled the air.
When one of the disciples finally won, breathing hard and bowing to his opponent, Yamashiro raised a hand to halt the next pair who was about to step forward. He turned toward a boy standing among the students. "Fujita, come here and fight with Gojo," he said, gesturing toward Gojo.
Gojo stepped forward calmly, his blindfold catching a faint glimmer of the overhead lanterns.
"Fujita has been a student of this dojo for the past one and a half years," Yamashiro said, addressing Gojo while the students listened closely. "He mastered the basics of swordsmanship within eight months. Since then, he's fought many battles—and won many as well. Among the disciples present here, he stands in the middle stages of both swordsmanship and strength."
Gojo nodded in acknowledgment, his posture steady and his expression unreadable beneath the blindfold.
Fujita, around sixteen or seventeen years old, gave a short bow to Yamashiro and stepped into the center of the dojo. Yamashiro continued, his tone instructive, "He is Gojo Satoru. He joined us just ten days ago, yet he has already mastered basic swordsmanship. I want you to spar with him—to guide him through battle."
Fujita nodded, understanding the meaning behind Yamashiro's words, though a flicker of surprise crossed his face. A ten-day novice? he thought. Let's see what kind of talent he truly has.
The two faced each other and gave the traditional salute. Yamashiro stood between them, one hand raised. When both had settled into their stances, he said firmly, "Begin," and stepped back.
The moment the word left his mouth, Fujita lunged forward with a powerful downward strike. He held back slightly, cautious not to injure the younger boy. Even so, the air trembled with the force of his swing.
But Gojo didn't flinch. His perception—razor sharp beneath that calm exterior—caught every motion. At the perfect instant, he shifted a step to the side. The wooden blade sliced through empty air.
Before Fujita could recover, Gojo's sword moved like a flash. He struck downward, his blade colliding with Fujita's in mid-arc. The impact sent a shudder up Fujita's arm and broke his balance.
In the same breath, Gojo turned his wrist and delivered another swift motion—the edge of his wooden sword came to rest gently against Fujita's neck.
Silence fell over the dojo.
The watching students could only stare, stunned. A boy who had been training for just ten days had effortlessly defeated someone who'd been here for more than a year. The air felt heavy with disbelief and awe as Fujita slowly lowered his weapon.
After Fujita lost, a flush of embarrassment and humiliation spread across his face. The murmurs of the watching students buzzed faintly around the dojo, but Fujita could barely hear them—his pride stung too much. He clenched his fists, jaw tight, as he stared at the blindfolded boy standing before him with a calm, unreadable expression.
Gojo tilted his head slightly, his tone even but direct. "You were holding back while fighting me, weren't you? Go ahead—let's fight again. This time, use your full strength, because if you don't, you'll lose to me again. And I don't want easy wins where I don't learn anything."
Though Gojo's words sounded arrogant, every student who had witnessed their previous duel knew they carried only truth. He's not boasting, a few thought. He's simply certain.
Fujita took a slow breath, his earlier frustration fading into resolve. He stepped forward, bowed deeply toward Gojo, and said with sincerity, "I am sorry for underestimating you." He straightened and continued, "I thought you were weaker than me from the very beginning of the battle. Such a thing is not only disrespectful to myself but also to my opponent. For that, I apologize."
Gojo gave a single nod, his face still calm. He didn't speak, but a faint smile tugged at the edge of his lips—approval, maybe, or just quiet acknowledgment.
Fujita then took his stance again, both hands gripping the wooden sword tightly. His eyes sharpened; this time, there would be no restraint. Gojo mirrored him, his posture relaxed but precise, every muscle ready to move.
Yamashiro once again stepped between them, his presence commanding the attention of everyone in the dojo. With his right hand raised high, he looked at both disciples. "Begin!" he declared, dropping his hand sharply before stepping back.
The word had barely left his mouth when Fujita burst forward, his sword whistling through the air. The vertical slash carried far greater strength and speed than before—the air itself seemed to tremble from the force.
Gojo sensed the motion instantly. He stepped aside with a fluid movement, the wooden blade passing just inches from his shoulder. But Fujita, having anticipated the dodge this time, twisted mid-motion and swung horizontally across Gojo's path.
A sharp crack echoed through the dojo as Gojo met the attack head-on, parrying it cleanly. The sound of clashing wood filled the space, vibrating through the students' chests. With a swift upward motion, Gojo pressed forward, his sword sliding up Fujita's in a burst of strength, forcing the older boy's weapon off balance.
Before Fujita could recover, Gojo pivoted, swinging horizontally toward Fujita's chest.
Fujita reacted just in time—his feet slid backward across the wooden floor, retreating fast. The tip of Gojo's wooden sword cut through the air where his chest had been a split second before.
But Gojo's senses were razor-sharp; he had already anticipated that retreat. The moment Fujita pulled back, Gojo adjusted his movement seamlessly and thrust his sword forward with precision.
He's fast! Fujita thought, quickly raising his sword to block the thrust. The impact pushed him several steps backward, his heels skidding faintly on the floor. Gritting his teeth, he retaliated with a diagonal slash from his right shoulder.
Gojo saw the trajectory as clearly as if time itself had slowed. He stepped forward and slightly to the side, moving in a peculiar rhythm that threw Fujita's sense of timing off. His wooden sword flashed, striking cleanly toward Fujita's wrist.
The hit landed. A sharp pain jolted up Fujita's arm, and his grip loosened. His sword slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the floor, the sound ringing through the dojo.
Before the echo even faded, Gojo's sword was already at Fujita's chest—firm, steady, and unshaking. If it had been a real blade, Fujita knew, it would have pierced his heart.
The dojo fell silent. Every pair of eyes was fixed on the two figures at the centre. Fujita stood frozen, chest rising and falling, while Gojo remained poised in perfect control, his blindfolded face unreadable.
This time, there was no doubt in anyone's mind. Fujita had fought with his full strength—and still, he had lost completely.
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