"You!"
At those words, the disciples of the Seishin Meichi-ryū immediately changed expressions in fury, on the verge of stepping forward to teach this reckless madman—who even dared to mock their master's name—a lesson.
"All right, all right." Isshin, however, acted as though he hadn't seen their movements. "Your master sent you to lead the way, not to fight me. Don't waste time—hurry up and guide me."
The calmness in his tone, laced with a hint of impatience, instead left the disciples—who had been brimming with pent-up force—choking on their anger.
The leading disciple shot him a vicious glare. His chest rose and fell sharply several times, but in the end he recalled his master's explicit instructions. He could only let out a heavy snort, forcibly suppress his anger, turn around, and stiffly spit out a single word: "Move!"
The group made their way through the broad streets of Sekikōjō, the atmosphere silent and tense. The disciple leading them walked at a brisk pace, as if trying to shake off the trouble behind him through sheer speed.
Isshin, meanwhile, followed unhurriedly. His gaze swept over the rows of blacksmith workshops and sword shops lining the street. Listening to the rhythmic clanging drifting out from within, his expression remained calm—almost as though he were sightseeing.
Before long, they arrived at a solemn estate occupying considerable ground within the city.
Black tiles and white walls. Suspended above the tall gate hung a plaque bearing the four characters "Seishin Meichi," its brushwork vigorous and powerful. Stepping through the main gate and passing the meticulously maintained garden, they reached the principal dōjō.
The dōjō was exceedingly spacious. At this moment, its sides were not empty; rather, more than a dozen middle-aged and elderly men with composed, steady auras sat there in varied attire.
Some had their arms folded across their chests; others sat upright and proper. Their gazes, sharp as lightning, fell in unison upon Isshin as he stepped into the dōjō.
These men were all prominent dōjō masters or renowned instructors within Sekikōjō. An invisible pressure permeated the air, solemn to the point that a falling pin could be heard.
Seated in the position of honor at the very front of the dōjō was a particularly tall and powerfully built middle-aged man, like an iron tower. He wore a dark-gray kendō uniform with a plain haori over it. His square face was carved with firm lines; beneath thick brows, his eyes were lightly closed, as though dozing.
Most eye-catching of all was the perfectly round iron staff placed beside him—entirely pitch-black, its material indiscernible. Though resting there quietly, it exuded a heavy presence that could not be ignored.
This man was the founding master of the Seishin Meichi-ryū, president of the Sekikōjō Swordsmanship Association, and a sword master—Yagyū Sōichirō.
The disciple who had led the way stepped forward quickly and respectfully addressed him from the front side: "Master, the person has been brought."
Sōichirō slowly opened his eyes. His gaze was not particularly sharp or aggressive, yet it was deep as an ancient well—carrying both authority and insight as it calmly settled on Isshin standing at the center of the dōjō.
The entire dōjō was deathly silent. All the observing dōjō masters and instructors held their breath, waiting for the sword master to speak, while also scrutinizing this young madman who had dared to challenge his way here step by step.
"You have traveled from south to north, challenging eight cities and more than twenty dōjō. I ask you: by acting as you have, what is it that you seek?"
Sōichirō did not make a move at once. His profound gaze lingered on Isshin for a moment before he finally spoke slowly.
"To temper the sword in my hand, and to prove the path in my heart. Beyond that…" Isshin paused, his voice steady. "I wish, here in this place, to open a dōjō in the name of the Ashina style, and to pass on what I have learned."
"Oh?" Sōichirō narrowed his eyes slightly; within that long, thin slit of vision, a flash of keen light flickered.
"Since you have come to Sekikōjō, I assume you harbor the same intentions as before."
He raised one hand—broad-palmed—and pointed to both sides of the dōjō. "In Sekikōjō, everyone with a name and a reputation—everyone qualified to be called an instructor—is here today. If you wish to prove yourself, they are right before you."
Sōichirō's gaze returned to Isshin as he continued. "As for your desire to sit here and take disciples…"
The corner of his mouth seemed to lift into an extremely faint curve, almost nonexistent. "That is a matter for later. Once you can pass the trial before you—once you prove you have the qualifications—then, in my capacity as president of the local Swordsmanship Association, I will grant you the qualifications to open a dōjō here."
His words were calm, yet they conveyed immense pressure with unmistakable clarity. The atmosphere within the dōjō grew heavier still, nearly congealing into something tangible.
In that suffocating silence, Isshin suddenly laughed. His gaze swept over the displeased masters on both sides, and his voice rang clear as he spoke with a matter-of-fact air: "Good! Since you're all here, that saves trouble. You—are you coming one by one, or all at once?"
"Insolent!"
"Outrageous!"
"Arrogant wretch!"
"An ignorant brat who doesn't know his place!"
The moment those words fell, it was as if cold water had been dropped into boiling oil—the two sides of the dōjō instantly erupted!
The masters could no longer hold back. One after another, they shouted in fury.
They were all prominent figures in Sekikōjō—when had they ever been so openly slighted by some unknown junior?
This was no longer a challenge, but naked humiliation!
"Let this old man teach you what manners are!" A shrill, harsh shout rang out.
On the left side, a lean figure, thin as a monkey, was the first to lose restraint. With a single bound, he landed lightly on the floor and stood opposite Isshin.
He was around forty. His eyes were sharp as a hawk's. At his waist hung two real blades, one long and one short—he was none other than the dōjō master of the "Flying Swallow Two-Blade Style," famed for rapid dual-saber assaults: Asuka Kyōsuke.
His right hand was already on the hilt of the long blade. Staring Isshin down, he said coldly: "Flying Swallow Two-Blade Style! Asuka Kyōsuke!"
Isshin's expression did not change. His right hand likewise steadily gripped the hilt of the slightly larger katana at his waist as he announced his name: "Ashina style, Isshin."
The instant his words fell, Asuka Kyōsuke moved!
With a sharp clang, the long blade left its scabbard, drawing a streak of snow-bright cold light. His figure truly resembled a flying swallow skimming the water, the tip of the blade thrusting straight toward Isshin's throat—fast, precise, ruthless!
At the same time, his left hand had already quietly pressed toward the short blade, a chain of lethal follow-up strikes poised to erupt.
However, Isshin was faster!
Almost at the very instant Asuka Kyōsuke's long blade cleared the mouth of the scabbard, Isshin moved as well. He did not retreat; instead, he stepped forward.
The step was not large, yet it precisely locked into the extreme limit of distance where the opponent's blade momentum was just about to fully unfold.
With a sharp shake of the wrist holding the sword, the scabbard shot forward violently, like an iron pestle, striking with precision at Asuka Kyōsuke's sword-bearing wrist!
Clang!
Scabbard and tsuba collided, producing a crisp metallic ring!
That kind of strength?!
Kyōsuke felt his wrist go numb, the trajectory of his swift thrust forcibly broken. The successive short-blade strikes died before they could be born. Shock surged in his heart. Reacting swiftly, he immediately shifted his move, attempting to slice the scabbard with his blade's edge.
But Isshin's motions flowed like drifting clouds and running water, without the slightest pause. At the very moment of impact, his true blade flashed forth like a sudden thunderclap!
Shing!
The long blade left its scabbard. Borrowing the recoil from the scabbard's collision and coordinating with the rotation of his waist, the blade slashed upward at an incomparably tricky angle, targeting the slight opening beneath Kyōsuke's raised armpit—an opening created by his forced change of move!
So fast that only light and shadow remained!
Kyōsuke's pupils contracted sharply. At the last possible instant, he barely managed to pull his blade back to block.
Clang!
The two blades collided, sparks scattering!
The force transmitted through Isshin's blade far exceeded Kyōsuke's expectations, numbing his arm and once again exposing his centerline.
Isshin's blade momentum sank with the motion. The back of the blade struck like a whip, smashing heavily against Kyōsuke's side abdomen.
"Ugh!"
Kyōsuke let out a muffled groan. The tremendous force lifted him sideways off the ground. He staggered and tumbled more than ten meters away, his long blade flying from his hand and clattering onto the polished stone floor. Clutching his abdomen, he curled up, unable to rise for the moment.
In a single exchange, the outcome was decided!
The angry shouts within the dōjō came to an abrupt halt, replaced by suppressed gasps.
Kyōsuke's rapid dual-blade assault was quite renowned in Sekikōjō—yet he had not even lasted a single exchange?
"That's not how you fight!"
At the edge of the field, a dōjō master seated in the rear—thin-faced and sporting a goatee—spoke to the disciple behind him: "When facing this kind of opponent, the key lies in… hm, in predicting the moment he exerts force and breaking his rhythm."
The young disciple looked utterly bewildered and instinctively asked, "Master, then how exactly does one predict it? And how does one break his rhythm?"
"Well… the subtleties within this cannot be fully conveyed in words. You must observe more, and comprehend more."
After saying this, the goateed master sat upright in formal posture and said no more, wearing an expression of unfathomable profundity.
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