Teaching Kendo in Tokyo 1980

The moment Kazuma gripped the sword's hilt, he could feel the ichimonji crest engraved upon it.

—So this really is an "Ichimonji."

A Bizen Osafune blade with an ichimonji crest—this was the first time he'd ever encountered one.

As his hand wrapped around the hilt, a strange sensation coursed through him. Especially the faint humming vibration from the blade itself—it was oddly soothing to the ear.

Even though he was surrounded by enemies, hearing that calming hum made Kazuma feel absolutely certain he wouldn't lose.

Why did he feel that way?

He didn't know—and didn't care to figure it out.

All he knew was this: sword in hand, one foe would fall with each swing. Two foes? Two would fall.

To avoid leaving an opening, he waited for them to make the first move.

"Don't be scared! There's more of us! Get him!" Tsuda Masaaki shouted.

By now, Kazuma's vision had mostly adjusted to the darkness. He could see the new batch of thugs glancing nervously at one another.

Then one of them let out a desperate yell, throwing himself forward.

As if that one cry had infected them, several more punks screamed and charged together, weapons swinging wildly from all directions.

Kazuma shifted his footing slightly—adjusting his distance by instinct. Then he unleashed a Kesa-giri.

Just like a master swordsman cutting down waves of enemies in a chambara film, the arc of Kazuma's blade swept precisely through each attacker, each strike measured and controlled.

Those familiar with HEMA would know—splitting a person clean in half with a single strike requires both a master's skill and a truly exceptional blade. Human bones are tough. One miscalculation, and your blade will chip or get stuck.

That's why in realistic sword films, you rarely see bodies cleaved in two—those scenes are typically reserved for major bosses.

Against grunts, the proper method was a shallow slice at vital arteries. Enough to end the fight instantly.

That was also how real swordmasters fought throughout history.

Minimal wounds. Maximum lethality.

It all came down to perfect control of distance—and pinpoint accuracy.

Kazuma's Kesa-giri had landed well, he thought. Judging by the feel of it, every foe had been struck—but none too deeply.

A flash of lightning lit the windows outside, and, as if by some trick of fate, the third floor lights flickered back to life for a few seconds.

In that brief moment, the punks who'd been frozen in place by Kazuma's slash realized blood was already pouring from new wounds on their arms.

Panic ensued. They dropped their weapons and clutched their injuries, wailing.

Kazuma glanced over their wounds in surprise. He'd aimed for the major vessels in their hands, but now most of the cuts were on their forearms—superficial.

Did I miss?

Kazuma frowned, chalking it up to lack of experience with live blades. A sloppy performance.

As the lights flickered out again, the scene looked like some chaotic dance of demons—the punks writhing and wailing in the dark.

Kazuma took a single step forward—just one step—and the room fell utterly silent. The remaining thugs instinctively backed away.

In his hand, the Bizen Osafune Ichimonji still shimmered faintly—Kazuma wondered if the blade itself was emitting that glow.

But that can't be right. It wasn't glowing earlier when I couldn't pull it from the bench.

And the humming sound… still there, faint but constant.

In his past life, Kazuma had heard an odd theory—that the hum of lightsabers in Star Wars was inspired by a phenomenon called "blade singing": when a supreme blade, wielded by a worthy swordsman, would emit a resonant tone.

Past-life Kazuma would have scoffed at the idea. Nonsense.

But this world was… different.

He took another step. The thugs parted before him like the sea before Moses.

"You cowards! What's with you?! Where's your yakuza pride?! You've got steel pipes, haven't you? No way that blade can cut through steel! Get him!" Tsuda Masaaki roared.

Grabbing a four-legged stool, Tsuda hurled it at Kazuma.

But even as Tsuda lifted it, Kazuma raised his blade high, adopting an Jōdan stance.

The moment the stool flew toward him, he struck—Jōdan Twin Strike!

Two clean, rapid slashes. The stool split evenly into three pieces mid-air.

The force of the cuts altered the stool's trajectory, sending the three fragments harmlessly past Kazuma to land behind him.

"You pulling magic tricks now?!" Tsuda shrieked, almost hysterical. "Cutting stools? Huh?! Cutting stools!?"

Kazuma gave no reply. Step by step, he advanced on Tsuda.

The thugs who had once stood between them had now retreated into the corners, crowding near the entrance they'd stormed through.

"Tsuda Masaaki. If you don't die here tonight, my sister and I will never know peace. So kindly die now." Kazuma's voice was calm—as though stating an obvious fact.

Tsuda burst out laughing. "Hahaha! You think you've won? You really think it's that easy to beat the yakuza?!"

Mid-sentence, he lunged toward a nearby desk.

Kazuma instantly realized—his trump card is hidden there!

He charged after Tsuda—but Tsuda suddenly feinted and darted toward a chest of drawers in the corner.

Kazuma pivoted sharply and pursued.

"Too late!" Tsuda shouted, yanking open a middle drawer—and drawing an American-made M1911 pistol.

"Die!" Tsuda screamed.

Kazuma knew—no one can outrun a bullet.

But you can outrun the movement of a gun barrel.

As long as he dodged before the trigger was pulled—he'd live.

For Kazuma now, that wasn't difficult. Especially with less than four meters between them.

Two gunshots rang out—

The first shattered a porcelain decoration on the wall.

The second struck the desk.

Neither hit Kazuma.

He'd zigzagged in a Z-shaped motion, evading Tsuda's aim. Before the third shot could be fired, Kazuma's blade struck the gun's grip.

Tsuda let out a bloodcurdling scream.

The pistol clattered to the floor—its grip still stuck to what remained of Tsuda's mangled fingers.

"My hand!" Tsuda howled in agony.

Kazuma raised his blade, poised to cleave Tsuda's head clean off.

"Wait!" Tsuda cried out desperately. "If you kill me, there's no going back! Forget Tokyo University—forget the police force! Your whole future will be gone! You'll end up in prison! The Kanto Union's lawyers will make sure of it!"

Kazuma's blade halted mid-swing.

Tsuda began laughing wildly. "That's right! Unless you want to plunge headfirst into the yakuza world, you can't kill me! At best, you can beat me up—take a few fingers—and then let me go!"

Kazuma's grip on the blade tightened.

In that instant, a vision unfolded before his eyes—like the very gates of hell opening.

He saw himself, fully immersed in yakuza life, a dragon tattoo writhing across his back, its cold eyes gazing down upon the wretched souls around him.

He saw Chiyoko reduced to a hostess, then a madam, her heart broken by some thug, her life ending in a gangland fire.

He saw Mikako trapped in a nightmare marriage—beaten daily, crying herself to sleep.

This infernal vision gave Kazuma every reason to lower his sword.

But he didn't.

So what?

Choosing to kill here would mean stepping onto the path of the asura—a life that brought pain to the world.

But at least, for a time, he and Chiyoko could have peace.

And if anyone threatened that peace again, he would cut them down—until the day there was no turning back.

Such a choice could hardly be called righteous.

Even the Bizen Osafune Ichimonji in his hand had stopped singing—perhaps because it was a blade of virtue? Had it guided his earlier Kesa-giri to avoid the vital points?

Even so, Kazuma remained resolute. He would swing.

He knew this path would lead him into the depths of villainy.

His last attachment to goodness condensed into three silent syllables:

Namu… Amida… Butsu…

The blade rose high.

At that moment—gunfire erupted.

A fresh bullet punched a bloody hole squarely into Tsuda's forehead.

Kazuma jerked to a stop, blade frozen mid-swing, eyes darting toward the source of the shot.

Detective Shiratori had slipped onto the third floor, unnoticed, through the same iron gate the thugs had used.

In one hand, he held a standard-issue police sidearm, perfectly braced. In the other, his badge—opened to the page displaying the chrysanthemum seal of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police.

"Police! Tokyo Metropolitan Police!" Shiratori shouted.

The room's lights flared fully to life.

"Ah, good timing. Got it fixed fast," Shiratori said casually, glancing at the fluorescent lamps. Then he turned to the figure behind him. "Takayama-kun, I'll leave it to you."

Detective Takayama pushed past the stunned thugs, approaching Kazuma. Glancing at him, Takayama calmly slipped on evidence gloves.

"Impressive. Taking down a whole crew solo. You're a new legend of the '80s already," he remarked.

With gloved hands, he picked up the M1911, inspecting it.

"The suspect possessed a deadly weapon and intended to use it. Detective Shiratori's response was justified self-defense," Takayama said, flipping the safety, then sealing the gun in an evidence bag.

Shiratori let out a breath, holstered his pistol, and called toward the gate: "Come in! Arrest these punks! Get the injured treated."

A wave of uniformed officers flooded into the room.

As his team got to work, Shiratori turned back to Kazuma.

"Kid, you know… we could've taken him in. We had time to wring out some very useful intel. But thanks to you, he's dead—and now that lead's gone."

He paused, gaze sharp.

"So be grateful. Next time, there might not be someone to pull you back from the gates of hell. If you're set on walking the straight path—then have the guts to stick to it. Got it, punk?"

(End of Chapter)