Land of Iron, Akakō City, Sword Association Headquarters – Main Conference Hall.
The atmosphere was so thick you could wring water out of it.
On both sides of the long table sat every respected sword master and dojo head in the city, sitting ramrod straight, eyes lowered, minds carefully blank.
At the head of the table, Chairman Yagyu Sōichirō's face was black as the bottom of a pot. His chest heaved with fury, the heavy iron staff beside him looking ready to slam down at any second.
BANG!
A palm the size of a palm-leaf fan crashed onto the hardwood, sending teacups jumping and tea splashing everywhere.
"In our Akakō City!" Yagyu Sōichirō's voice boomed like thunder, echoing through the hall. His beard and hair bristled, eyes flashing as they swept the room and finally pinned on a spot at the far right end of the table. "We have produced a truly remarkable figure! A lawless, reckless, storm-stirring big shot!"
"He turned the entire southeast region upside down! Complaints from every dojo are flying in like snowflakes! And that's not even the worst part—sparring matches are supposed to be about swordsmanship! But him?!"
His voice shot up an octave, laced with pure disbelief.
"He actually pulled out a gun! A swordsman—in a proper, honorable duel—whips out a firelock!"
"A swordsman! Instead of polishing his blade work and taking his school's techniques to the peak, he spends all day messing with weird gadgets and cheap tricks! Today it's a pistol, tomorrow is he going to roll up with a cannon? The day after that, ninjutsu and genjutsu? Huh?! HUH?!"
He got more worked up the longer he spoke, rising to his feet and waving his arms.
"Even when I step out for a meal, I hear at least nine different people talking about how this big shot smashed another dojo and fired another shot in another match!"
Though the chairman hadn't named anyone, every single pair of eyes in the hall turned, knowingly and unanimously, toward the same person.
The young swordsman sitting at the far right end—tall, dressed in dark sword robes, calmly sipping tea as if he were listening to the weather report.
Isshin.
Facing the chairman's hurricane of scolding and the full weight of every stare, Isshin's expression stayed perfectly neutral. He even had the nerve to lean slightly toward the sturdy teenager beside him—also tall and broad, wearing proper warrior clothes, trying very hard to sit straight but whose eyes kept darting everywhere—and say in a low voice loud enough for everyone nearby to hear:
"Chūgi, don't learn from your father. Making a big fuss over every little thing all day long is no way to live."
The teenager was none other than Yagyu Sōichirō's only son—Yagyu Chūgi.
The kid was a handful himself. Born into a famous sword family with a renowned father, he had zero interest in the family's staff techniques. His real dream was to become a shinobi, and he had even given himself what he thought was an ultra-cool ninja codename—"Owl."
The second Isshin said it, Chūgi almost burst out laughing. He clamped his mouth shut, shoulders twitching suspiciously.
That tiny movement didn't escape Yagyu Sōichirō's eyes. The chairman's glare shot over like twin cold lightning bolts. Chūgi instantly felt his back go cold and snapped back into perfect posture, eyes down, mind blank.
Yagyu Sōichirō stared at his son for a long moment before slowly dragging his gaze back to Isshin, voice low and icy. "Isshin… what exactly are you saying?"
Isshin set his teacup down gently, looked up, and met the chairman's flaming glare with an expression of utmost sincerity, as if he had just received profound wisdom.
"I said—the chairman speaks truly!"
Seeing that same slippery, nothing-sticks attitude, a clear tic mark throbbed on Yagyu Sōichirō's forehead. The fire in his chest roared higher.
But he couldn't beat the man in a fight, and yelling seemed useless.
The chairman took a deep breath, forcing his boiling rage into something closer to helpless, disappointed advice.
"Isshin… I know you love combat and crave strong opponents to temper yourself. That's the nature of a true swordsman. But everything has a proper way and a limit! The way you run wild and make enemies everywhere might feel good in the moment, but you're only putting yourself in the eye of the storm, inviting endless criticism and hidden dangers. How does that help your long-term training or the reputation of the Ashina Style?"
His tone softened a fraction. "You are now an officially recognized master of Akakō City. You carry the responsibility of bringing honor to our city at the next National Swordsmanship Tournament. We only have one year left! This is the golden period to calm your mind, strengthen your body, and refine your skills! You should put aside all those messy distractions and devote every ounce of energy to proper sword training!"
"The National Swordsmanship Tournament is nothing like your casual dojo-crashing matches. The direct heirs of every major school, the secret weapons each city has been secretly grooming, the hidden masters living among the common folk or deep in the mountains—every powerhouse will gather. It will be a true gathering of dragons and tigers, the ultimate stage where legends are made."
"Wind?"
At that single word, Isshin—who had been half-lidded and seemingly lost in his own world—suddenly perked up as if something had struck a nerve.
He lifted his head, gaze drifting toward the vast sky outside the hall windows, and murmured almost unconsciously, voice carrying a strange, wistful note:
"What a fine wind… As the saying goes—wind follows the tiger, clouds follow the dragon, dragons and tigers, heroes soaring beneath the vault of heaven."
"You little bastard!!!"
Yagyu Sōichirō froze for half a second, then realized the punk hadn't been listening to a single word of his heartfelt advice and was instead muttering more nonsense. The chairman's face, which had just started to calm, went from red to black to purple in record time.
"Are you even listening to me?! What kind of half-baked, old-and-new gibberish are you spouting now?! I'm trying to talk serious business with you!"
"Oh…"
Isshin blinked, looking like he had only just been pulled back from his reverie. He gave an apologetic, enlightened nod. "Sorry, Chairman. I was moved by the moment."
"You're right. From now on, I'll behave myself."
The entire hall went so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
Even Yagyu Sōichirō's angry expression froze. He wondered if rage had finally made him hallucinate.
Did the kid just… agree? Did the sun rise in the west? Or is he planning something even worse?
All sorts of thoughts flashed through the chairman's mind. In the end, he decided to take the rare show of compliance at face value—even if it was only on the surface.
He gave a heavy snort, his face softening a little, though his tone stayed stern. "Remember your own words, boy! That's enough for today—meeting adjourned!"
The dojo masters exchanged uncertain glances, still full of questions and half-finished gossip, and filed out one by one. Yagyu Sōichirō rubbed his temples, looking utterly exhausted as he headed toward the inner hall.
The moment the crowd thinned, Yagyu Chūgi darted over like a nimble monkey and whispered, "Sensei, are you really planning to behave for a whole year? That doesn't sound like you at all!"
(Yes—Yagyu Chūgi had officially become Isshin's second disciple in the Ashina Style.)
His reason for dreaming of becoming a shinobi was pure rebellion. To him, the endless rules and etiquette of bushidō were suffocating—don't do this, can't do that. It felt cramped and joyless.
Everyone used chakra anyway, didn't they?
Compared to that, shinobi—who weren't bound by tradition, could freely use all kinds of bizarre ninjutsu and dirty tricks, and decided life and death in battle—fit his romantic vision of freedom and power far better.
Unfortunately, the Land of Iron belonged to samurai. There was no proper shinobi tradition here, and his old-fashioned father had strictly forbidden him from leaving the country to chase the ninja path. It had left Chūgi depressed for a long time.
Until, a year ago, this swordsman named Isshin appeared—someone whose style was completely different from every other swordsman in the Land of Iron, a man who believed in "winning by any means necessary." He was like a sharp blade of light slicing through Chūgi's gloomy dreams.
With almost no hesitation, Chūgi had seized the chance to become his disciple. When Yagyu Sōichirō found out later, he had nearly exploded, but the deed was already done. In the end he could only pinch his nose and accept it.
"We'll talk about that later, Chūgi. Let's head back to the dojo first."
Chūgi straightened up, face serious. "Sensei, please call me Owl in private!"