Splinters of bamboo scattered across the mirror-polished wooden floor with a dry crack, shattering the dojo's perfect geometry. In the deafening silence that cut short the enthusiastic applause, Kiba Yuuto stood motionless, his hand still gripping the useless fragment of the shinai. His face, which just a moment ago had been focused and predatory, was now a mask of absolute, genuine astonishment. He wasn't looking at the broken sword; his piercing green gaze was riveted on Jin, who was examining his own half of the weapon with a slightly surprised expression.
"You..." Kiba began, his voice sounding hollow and strained, but he couldn't finish the sentence.
At that moment, the fragile stupor was shattered by a new wave of enthusiasm. The girls from the kendo club, recovering from their initial shock, formed a tight ring around the two sparring partners, their eyes burning with genuine admiration. Cries of "Incredible!", "I've never seen anything like that!", and "That was cooler than a movie!" merged into a single enthusiastic roar, finally washing away the remnants of combat tension and returning the atmosphere of a school club.
Kiba, hearing their voices, seemed to snap out of it. He blinked several times, his face quickly adopting its usual friendly expression, and his signature, disarming prince's smile appeared on his lips. He skillfully took control of the situation, unwilling to show his true confusion in front of his many admirers.
"Well, it seems today's practice was a bit too intense even for our equipment," his voice sounded light and casual, as if breaking two swords with a single blow was an everyday occurrence. He looked at the fragments with regret. "These shinai should have been retired long ago; they're completely worn out. My apologies, Izayoi-san, for such an unfortunate incident."
Jin just huffed, playing along. He could see that beneath this ease lay deep surprise and a multitude of questions, but he decided not to dwell on it.
"However," Kiba continued, and a competitive spark flashed in his eyes again, "I can't let our match end on such a note. That would be disrespectful to such an interesting opponent. How about a real spar? Outside, in the open air, where it won't be so cramped. I'm sure we can find a couple of swords that can withstand our pressure."
Jin accepted the idea with obvious pleasure. He tossed the shinai fragment to the floor and looked at Kiba with a predatory, anticipatory smile.
"I'm all for it."
A few minutes later, the scene moved to the spacious training ground in front of the dojo. The evening sun bathed it in a soft golden light, and a light breeze rustled in the nearby bamboo grove. The girls from the kendo club, as well as a few random students drawn by rumors of the duel, lined the edge of the field, forming a living circle of spectators.
Kiba Yuuto, having exchanged his broken shinai for a new, sturdy one, stood in the center, his figure the embodiment of grace and power. He assumed a perfect stance, his body taut like a string, his gaze focused on his opponent.
Jin, on the other hand, didn't display his showy disdain this time. He stood for a few seconds, as if recalling what they had shown him in the dojo, and then slowly, almost reluctantly, settled into the classic kamae stance. Under normal circumstances, for a normal person, this stance was a necessity—it allowed one to balance the body, distribute weight, compensate for weaknesses, and prepare for an attack or defense. But for him, whose body was a perfect instrument devoid of human limitations, this formalized pose was more of a hindrance. It restricted his movements, forced him to operate within the bounds of a specific technique, made him more predictable. But he accepted the challenge. Kiba was serious, and meeting his seriousness with equal seriousness, even within the confines of this imposed game, seemed right to Jin. He tightened his grip on the new shinai's hilt, and a quiet, barely audible creak of bamboo came from under his fingers.
It was decided to hold a three-round match according to kendo rules—first clean hit wins. Murayama, the club captain, proudly took on the role of referee. She stood between the two fighters, her face serious and focused. All the spectators held their breath. Murayama held her gaze on Jin for a few seconds, then on Kiba, and, confirming their readiness, gave the signal to begin with a sharp wave of her hand, stepping aside.
Contrary to the crowd's expectations, they didn't rush at each other immediately. A second passed, then another. They stood motionless, like two statues separated by a few meters of empty space, only their gazes meeting in a silent duel, studying, assessing, searching for the slightest gap in the opponent's defense.
Kiba moved first. It wasn't a sharp lunge, but a smooth, almost dancing glide forward. His feet barely touched the ground, and the shinai in his hand seemed an extension of his body. He closed the distance and struck—a fast, precise thrust aimed at Jin's wrist. A classic kote-uchi. Jin reacted instinctively; his body, accustomed to speeds surpassing human comprehension, easily moved off the line of attack. He took half a step back, and Kiba's sword sliced through empty air with a whoosh. However, Kiba hadn't expected to hit on the first try. This was reconnaissance, a test of reactions. Without giving Jin a moment to breathe, he immediately launched a new attack, his shinai whirling in a series of feints, deceptive movements, trying to confuse Jin, to make him open up.
Jin, however, didn't fall for the provocations. He moved minimally, his defense economical and effective. He didn't try to counter-attack; he simply observed, adapting to this unfamiliar fighting style, to Kiba's rhythm, to how the bamboo sword behaved in his hand. He felt clumsy, constrained by this "crutch" that prevented him from using his main weapons—the speed and strength of his own body. But a game was a game.
Seeing that the feints weren't working, Kiba decided to switch to direct pressure. He unleashed a hail of blows on Jin, aiming for his head, his torso, his hands. Every strike was precise, every swing accompanied by a powerful kiai. Jin was forced onto the deep defensive. He parried the blows, blocked the thrusts, but his technique was crude, intuitive. He was relying not on swordsmanship, but on his superhuman reflexes and strength, which allowed him to stop Kiba's attacks where anyone else would have been struck.
The spectators watched the duel, mesmerized. They saw Kiba's elegant, technical style clash with Jin's raw, primal power. It was like a fencer's dance with a wild beast.
And at some point, the beast made a mistake. Too focused on blocking another attack, Jin left his left side open for a fraction of a second. Kiba noticed it instantly. His body lunged forward, and the shinai, tracing a lightning-fast arc, landed a clean, sharp strike against Jin's torso.
"Do!" Murayama announced loudly, raising her flag.
The first round went to Kiba. He had won through technique, experience, and the ability to find and exploit his opponent's weaknesses.
After a short pause, the second round began. Jin looked more collected. He understood his mistake—he couldn't just passively defend. He had to impose his own rhythm, his own style.
When Murayama gave the signal, he moved first. His movement wasn't as graceful as Kiba's, but it was fast and unpredictable. He closed the distance and struck. The blow was strange, almost ridiculous by kendo standards—a strong, direct thrust, more like a spear jab than a sword cut. Kiba easily parried it, but he felt the monstrous power behind the clumsy movement.
Jin began to attack, using the shinai as an extension of his arm. He struck from the most awkward, unnatural positions, relying on the flexibility and strength of his body. He could strike from a near-crouch, or lunge while twisting in a way no normal human could. His style was chaotic, devoid of all technique, but incredibly effective. He forced Kiba to be constantly on edge, deflecting attacks flying from the most unexpected angles.
Kiba, however, didn't lose his composure. He was a master of his craft. He retreated, parried, counter-attacked, his movements flawless. He was waiting. Waiting for this wild beast to make another mistake, to get carried away by its own furious but unsystematic assault.
And the moment came. Jin, after landing another powerful overhead strike that Kiba barely deflected, lost his balance for an instant. That fraction of a second was enough. Kiba lunged, his shinai flying toward Jin's head. It should have been a clean men. The winning blow.
The spectators gasped, anticipating the conclusion. But it never came.
At the very last moment, when the tip of Kiba's sword was just a centimeter from Jin's forehead, something unimaginable happened. Jin, instead of trying to dodge or make a classic block, made a sharp, almost invisible movement with his wrist. His shinai jerked forward, and the sword's guard—the tsuba—met Kiba's flying blade.
Clink!
A short, sharp sound rang out. The blow was stopped. Not by the blade, but by the small, round piece of wood at the hilt. This wasn't just unorthodox. It was impossible. A block like that required inhuman reflexes and precision.
Kiba froze, his eyes wide with shock. He couldn't believe what had just happened. And while he stood, paralyzed by surprise, Jin took advantage of his confusion and landed a counter-strike. A short, sharp, almost lazy jab with the tip of his shinai, which precisely touched his wrist.
"Kote!" Murayama announced, her voice trembling with amazement.
The score was 1-1.
The final round. The tension reached its peak. Now they were both more active. They moved around the field, exchanging fast, furious blows. The clash of shinai filled the air. Jin felt the thrill of the fight surge through him. The speed of their exchange was child's play to him. He saw Kiba's every move, every feint, every shift in stance. He knew that if this were a real fight, he would have won long ago, simply by bypassing his guard and striking with his fist. But this "crutch" in the form of a sword made the game fun. It forced him to think, to find new, unconventional solutions.
Kiba, for his part, was completely focused. He understood he was facing an opponent on a whole different level. He used his entire arsenal: changing stances, striking from different angles, trying to catch Jin in a mistake. His swordsmanship was flawless, honed like a blade. Jin, meanwhile, continued to rely on his monstrous strength and reflexes; his strikes were strange, but every one carried a threat.
Their blades crossed again and again. The spectators, holding their breath, watched this incredible dance of power and technique.
In the end, experience won out. In the heat of another furious attack, Jin, getting carried away, again made a microscopic error, winding up for a strike just a little too wide. And Kiba didn't miss his chance. His body shot forward, and the shinai, like a snake's fang, landed a precise, measured blow against Jin's torso.
"Do!" Murayama shouted.
The third round went to Kiba.
They lowered their swords and, approaching the center of the field, bowed to each other.
"This time, the victory is mine," Kiba said, his usual, warm smile returning to his face.
Jin just snorted in response.
'Damn show-off,' flashed through his mind, but he couldn't deny that it had been... fun. For the first time in a long time.