Teaching Kendo in Tokyo 1980

After eating his fill, Kiryu Kazuma decided it was time to test just how strong his level 12 Real Combat stat really was.

Back when he'd only had level 5, a single Gatotsu had been enough to send burly men flying. Now that he'd reached level 12, he figured he might actually be able to launch someone into the ceiling—leaving a perfect, anime-style afterimage-shaped hole.

He picked up the bamboo sword that Kiryu Chiyoko had used earlier to thrash Bandō and his men, then assumed a middle guard stance.

As soon as he settled into the stance, the sensation of gripping the Bizen Osafune Ichimonji Masamune resurfaced in his mind.

The bamboo sword should have felt much lighter than a real blade—but somehow, that genuine sword, which practically sang with each subtle movement, had felt far more agile.

Kazuma gave the bamboo sword a casual swing, and the longing for his new beloved blade grew stronger.

How long is this so-called "processing at forensics" at the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department (Keishichō) going to take...?

He was itching to get it back so he could practice Iaigiri and the like.

And of course—he absolutely had to try training under cherry blossoms, letting petals drift past the blade to be sliced perfectly in half. Not only would that look cool, it might even give him a buff.

So far, Kazuma had confirmed that there were two types of ways to grow stronger in this world: temporary and permanent.

Temporary boosts were pretty varied—ceremonial actions could grant temporary buffs, intense emotions in the moment could give a burst of power, and past experiences might also trigger temporary buffs.

Which meant... living life was essential here. If you just locked yourself away grinding levels but lacked life experience, you wouldn't be able to trigger those "on-the-spot" power bursts—and might get beaten by someone with lower stats.

Honestly, this bothered Kazuma a bit. In his previous life, he'd loved reading webnovels where protagonists would seclude themselves for thousands of years and come out able to destroy everything. Even in games, he liked to grind quietly first before facing the boss.

Now he had to have a life.

But then again—he thought of those wandering swordsmen in classic stories, traveling to grow stronger. In a way, that was just gathering life experiences to fuel temporary buffs.

So going forward, he'd need to embrace life—sweat, laugh, and seize youth.

That wasn't a problem.

As for permanent growth, there were two clear avenues.

First, traits. He already had one—though it seemed to come with a "no-partying" restriction. But so long as he fought solo, it should be quite powerful.

How powerful, though? He'd need a chance to test it.

Second, skill levels.

He glanced at his Shintō-ryū Sword Skill—the experience bar hadn't moved much. It seemed that to raise this quickly, he'd need to duel against others with high sword skills.

As for Real Combat—this probably didn't need special training. Actually, it was better not to train it recklessly, since life-and-death combat was dangerous. And unlike games, there was no save point here. If he died, that was it.

After today's desperate assault, Kazuma really had no desire to repeat such a gamble.

Looking back, there'd been plenty of moments today where one bad roll of the dice could've killed him.

Aside from traits and skill levels, there was one more method of permanent growth—one he'd only just confirmed today:

Weapons.

When Tsuda Masaaki had picked up the Bizen Osafune Ichimonji Masamune, that eerie black-green aura around him had seemed to flee from the blade.

Kazuma was sure he hadn't imagined it.

That blade had rejected Tsuda—it wasn't compatible with him. Which meant Tsuda hadn't been able to draw out its full potential.

Kazuma looked down at his hand, releasing the bamboo sword, palm up, flexing his fingers in the air—remembering the feel of gripping the Masamune.

For some reason, the intricate Ichimonji pattern on the hilt had stood out so vividly to him. He couldn't stop reliving the sensation of his fingers tracing its surface.

He was certain that wielding this sword would multiply his combat strength—though it might make precision strikes harder.

But since he was now aiming for a police career, that wasn't exactly a drawback.

And if he ever did need to kill—he was confident the blade would obey.

He might even face some utterly vile enemy someday, one that deserved to be cut down. When that day came, he imagined the Masamune would practically hum with glee, urging him forward: Now's the time.

Ah... my precious sword... when will you finally clear processing and come back to me?!

Right now, Kazuma felt like someone who had just paid the final balance on a prized figure and was anxiously waiting for delivery.

When the sword returned, he fully intended to admire it—just like he would a figure.

Just then, Kiryu Chiyoko entered the dojo. Seeing the look on Kazuma's face, she hesitated, then took a step back nervously. "Bro... what are you doing? Are you... crushing on my bamboo sword? I... I'll tell Mikako-onee-san, you know!"

Startled, Kazuma quickly wiped the goofy grin off his face.

"N-no, you've got it wrong. I was just recalling how the fight felt. Got a little carried away."

In truth, he'd been reminiscing about cutting people down with a stolen sword. No way he was telling Chiyoko that.

Chiyoko set down the tea and snacks she'd brought, then darted to the storage room beside the dojo. She came back with another bamboo sword.

"Bro, show me how you fought! Pretend I'm one of the Tsuda-gumi grunts!"

Kazuma shook his head. "No way. I might hurt you."

With his level 12 Real Combat, a single Gatotsu could probably cripple her.

"I'll just describe it. I stood at the entrance to the Tsuda-gumi office... then recited 'Human life is but fifty years...'."

"Why?" Chiyoko asked, baffled.

"I was invoking the protection of the Sixth Heavenly Demon King—Lord Nobunaga—to attain the secret of Okehazama." Kazuma spouted nonsense. No way was he mentioning his system.

Chiyoko was speechless. Kazuma seized the chance to continue.

"Then, one of their grunts came out and started shouting. So I launched a Gatotsu—"

He demonstrated the stance and surged forward like a bullet.

Chiyoko's jaw dropped. "Holy—Bro! You—you left an afterimage!"

"It's an illusion," Kazuma said calmly. "Our dojo's old fluorescent lights have low flicker rates. That's why it looked like an afterimage."

Chiyoko thought it over. "Oh... really? You're not messing with me?"

I totally am!

Kazuma kept a straight face. "Nope. That's how it works. You'll learn about it in high school physics. It has to do with how human vision works..."

And thus began another round of Kazuma's fast-talking bluff.

In the small sitting room beside the entryway, Bandō and a few wakashu were having instant noodles for a late-night snack. They could have bought something nicer, but since the Kiryu siblings were also having a snack, most of the budget had gone to their food. The yakuza men were now crammed into the little room, slurping noodles.

Despite their typical yakuza attire, the sight of several grown men gathered around a kettle, each with a Nissin plastic instant noodle cup, was somewhat comical.

"Once we're done eating, we'll divide up night watch shifts," Bandō said.

One of the younger men frowned. "Why are we guarding the dojo gate? It's the Tsuda-gumi who wrecked it."

Bandō smacked him on the head. "Idiot. As of tonight, there is no more Tsuda-gumi."

The youngster nodded. "Oh, yeah..."

Another muttered, "Did you hear? Afterimage sword technique. I wanna see that."

"Probably fake. No way there's an afterimage."

Bandō listened to their chatter without interrupting, focused on his noodles instead.

In Japan, it was customary to slurp noodles noisily—especially if a chef was present. Though there wasn't one here, habit prevailed.

Suddenly, Bandō heard the distant screech of car brakes.

"Hold it!" he ordered softly, freezing the group mid-slurp. He perked up his ears. "Cars. Three, maybe four. Stopped nearby. Stop eating. Everyone with me to the gate—form a line!"

He slammed down his cup, stood, and strode through the wrecked entryway out to the street.

Several black luxury cars loomed in the distance, headlights glaring so brightly that Bandō had to squint.

His men quickly formed up behind him.

One whispered, "What do we do?"

"Go alert the others. The rest of you—form up with me! Hold this position!"

Bandō issued the order with grim determination.

(End of Chapter)