In the Land of Iron, in Sekikōjō, inside the conference hall at the headquarters of the Swordsmanship Association.
The atmosphere was so oppressive it felt suffocating.
On both sides of the long table, the prominent sword masters of Sekikōjō and the heads of the major dōjō sat upright and formal, eyes lowered, each minding his own business.
At the seat of honor, president Yagyū Sōichirō's face was dark with anger. His chest rose and fell violently with anger, and that dark iron staff rested by his hand, as if it might come crashing down onto the table the next moment.
Bang!
A large hand slammed hard onto the hardwood tabletop, making the cups and saucers jump and the tea splash everywhere.
"Our Sekikōjō!" Sōichirō's voice was like thunder, rumbling through the conference hall. His beard and hair flared with anger, and his lightning-like gaze swept across the room before finally pinning itself to a certain seat on the lower right. "Has produced quite an extraordinary figure! A great figure who acts with utter recklessness, lawless and unrestrained, stirring up trouble wherever he goes!"
"He has turned the entire southeastern region upside down! Complaints from every dōjō are flying to me like snowflakes! And that still isn't the end of it. Sparring matches are supposed to be about swordsmanship and honing one's blade! But him?!"
Sōichirō's voice suddenly rose, filled with a nearly absurd indignation.
"He actually used a gun! With the identity of a swordsman, in an open and proper match, he pulled out a firearm!"
"A swordsman! Instead of thinking about how to properly refine his swordsmanship and train his school's blade arts to the highest peak, he spends all day scheming over cheap tricks and gimmicks! Today he pulls out a firearm. Tomorrow is he going to carry a cannon into the dōjō for a match? The day after that, is he planning to use all kinds of ninjutsu and genjutsu too?! Huh?!"
The more he spoke, the angrier he became. Rising to his feet, he waved his arms.
"If I go out just to get a meal, I can hear at least nine people discussing which dōjō this great figure smashed up again, and in which match he fired his gun again, again, and again!"
Although the president had not directly named anyone, the eyes of everyone present had already turned, in perfect unspoken understanding, toward the same direction.
To the young swordsman sitting at the far end on the right, wearing a dark swordsman's uniform, tall and broad, calmly holding a teacup and taking small sips.
Isshin.
Faced with the president's storm of scolding and the entire room's focused gaze, Isshin's expression remained so flat it was as if he were listening to a weather report.
He even had the leisure to tilt his head slightly and say earnestly to the boy sitting beside him—a similarly tall and sturdy youth dressed neatly in samurai attire, trying hard to sit straight and proper, though his eyes kept darting around despite himself: "Chūgi, don't learn from your father. Over the smallest thing, he drones on endlessly all day."
That boy was none other than Yagyū Sōichirō's only son—Yagyū Chūgi.
This brat was no honest sort either. Though born into a family of sword saints and possessing a father renowned throughout the southeast, he had little interest in the family's inherited staff arts. His dream instead was to become a ninja, and he had even given himself what he thought was a cool ninja codename—Owl.
Now that Isshin had pointed it out so directly, he nearly failed to hold back his laughter. He quickly pressed his lips together hard, but his shoulders still twitched suspiciously twice.
How could such a tiny movement escape Sōichirō's eyes? The president's gaze shot over like two streaks of cold lightning. At once, Chūgi felt a chill run down his back and hurriedly straightened his spine, lowering his eyes and stilling his mind.
Sōichirō stared at his son for a long while before slowly shifting his gaze back to Isshin. His tone was cold and heavy.
"Isshin, what are you talking about?"
Unhurried, Isshin gently set the teacup back onto the table, lifted his head, met Sōichirō's nearly fire-spitting glare, and answered with an incomparably sincere expression, as though he had been deeply instructed: "I was saying, President, your insight is admirable!"
Seeing Isshin's slippery, incorrigible look—everything going in one ear and out the other—a clear vein bulged at Sōichirō's temple, and the fire in his chest surged higher and higher.
But he could not beat him, and scolding him seemed useless too.
Sōichirō took a deep breath and forcibly transformed his churning anger into a kind of near-helpless admonition, the sort born of frustration toward unfulfilled potential.
"Isshin, this old man knows that you are combative and long to cross blades with the strong to temper yourself. That is a swordsman's nature. But in all things, there must be method, and there must be limits! Acting so wantonly, making enemies everywhere as you do now—it may seem satisfying, but in truth you are placing yourself on the crest of the storm, inviting endless criticism and hidden danger. What benefit does that bring to your long-term training, or to the spread of your Ashina style's reputation?"
At this point, his voice softened somewhat.
"Now that you have been recognized by Sekikōjō as a shihan, you bear the responsibility of bringing glory to the city at the next National Swordsmanship Tournament. And there is only one year left until the competition! This is precisely the golden period to calm your heart, settle yourself, strengthen your physique, and delve deeply into your craft! You should put away all those complicated thoughts and devote all your energy to proper swordsmanship training!"
"The National Swordsmanship Tournament is nothing like the small-scale dōjō challenges and sparring matches you've been involved in before. When the time comes, the direct heirs of every major school, the top talents painstakingly trained by each city, and the hidden masters scattered across towns and mountains—all of them will gather there. Experts will be everywhere. That is the true highest stage, where the strongest clash and the finest rise, where everything comes together!"
Isshin—who had been half-lidding his eyes as if his mind were elsewhere—suddenly seemed to stir.
He abruptly raised his head and looked out toward the vast sky beyond the conference hall windows. Almost unconsciously, he murmured in a low voice, carrying a faint, inexplicable sigh: "Now that's a fine wind… just like they say—where there are great forces in motion, others are drawn in. In times like these, the truly outstanding rise above the rest."
"You little bastard!!!"
Sōichirō froze for a moment. Then, realizing that this damned brat had not been listening to his painstaking guidance at all, but was instead babbling some bizarre, off-key nonsense again, the old man's face—which had only just eased—instantly went from red to black, and from black to purple.
"Were you listening to a single word this old man said or not?! What kind of nonsense are you babbling now?! I'm trying to talk to you seriously!"
"Oh..."
Only then did Isshin seem to be pulled back from his own reflections by that roar. He blinked, revealing an apologetic expression of sudden understanding.
"My apologies, President. I was moved just now and spoke on impulse."
"You are right. In the days ahead, I will behave myself a bit more."
The moment those words came out, the conference hall fell so silent that one could hear a pin drop.
Even the anger on Sōichirō's face froze. He wondered whether he had been so enraged that he had started hallucinating.
Had this brat changed his nature? Had the sun risen in the west? Or was he holding back some even worse scheme?
All sorts of thoughts flashed rapidly through Sōichirō's mind. In the end, he decided to believe this rare show of submission for the time being, even if it was only on the surface.
He let out a heavy snort. His expression eased somewhat, though his tone remained stern.
"Remember your own words, boy! That will be all for today. Meeting adjourned!"
The dōjō heads exchanged looks, full of suspicion and unfinished discussion, and rose one after another to leave. Sōichirō also rubbed at his brow and walked toward the back hall with a weary face.
Once the crowd dispersed, Chūgi immediately darted over to Isshin's side like a nimble monkey and lowered his voice.
"Shishō, do you really plan to behave yourself for the next year? That doesn't sound like you!"
Yes—Yagyū Chūgi had now officially entered Isshin's school and become the second disciple of the Ashina style.
His reason for dreaming of becoming a ninja was rather rebellious. In his view, all the formalities and rules of bushidō were simply too many—this was forbidden, that was not allowed, everything was stifling and joyless.
When everyone was using chakra anyway, what was the point?
Compared to that, ninja—unbound by tradition, able to freely use all kinds of strange ninjutsu and every conceivable method, deciding life and death in battle—fit far better with the romantic vision of freedom and power in his heart.
Unfortunately, the Land of Iron was a nation of samurai, with no orthodox ninja inheritance, and his old-fashioned father had strictly forbidden him from leaving the Land of Iron to pursue any so-called ninja path. For a long time, this left Chūgi deeply frustrated.
Until one year ago, when this swordsman named Isshin appeared.
His conduct and style were utterly different from every other swordsman in the Land of Iron, and he believed in "winning by any means necessary." It was like a sharp beam of light cast into the dim gray of Chūgi's aspirations.
He had scarcely hesitated before finding an opportunity to take Isshin as his shishō. Naturally, when Sōichirō learned of it afterward, he flew into a rage. But what was done was done, and in the end he could only pinch his nose and accept it.
"We can talk about that later. Chūgi, back to the dōjō first."
Chūgi straightened his face.
"Shishō, in private, please call me Owl!"
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