Teaching Kendo in Tokyo 1980

For the next few dozen seconds, Kazuma was forced to face a relentless, storm-like barrage of attacks.

He relied entirely on raw reflexes to defend—his sword techniques and training forms were practically useless against this onslaught.

Under such ferocious pressure, Kazuma's defenses were repeatedly broken. Though he was wearing protective gear, new stinging aches were blossoming all over his body.

Clearly, this opponent's Level 23 Shin'in-ryū wasn't just for show.

And yet—something strange happened.

Despite the clumsy state of his defense, Kazuma felt certain of one thing: if this had been a real fight with live blades, he would've been gravely wounded—but his opponent would be dead.

Am I just too stubborn to admit he's stronger?

No, that wasn't it. The numbers made it obvious the opponent was formidable. Kazuma had fully expected to lose coming into this match.

Even so, in the midst of this fight, the thought emerged: In a life-or-death duel, I could defeat this man.

That certainty couldn't have come from his ego. His body must have sensed something through the clash of bamboo swords—something his mind had yet to grasp.

Kazuma focused all his awareness on this faint instinct his body had picked up.

And to his surprise, over the next few seconds, he successfully blocked every strike.

In that moment, understanding dawned.

This man's sword lacks a heart.

In this world, shin-gi-ittai—the unity of mind and technique—was real. In past battles, Kazuma had always felt the heart and intent behind an opponent's strikes.

Whether it was exchanging blows with Nishiyama Heita, crossing swords with Daimon Gorō, or even grappling with Ōta Jūzō, Kazuma could sense their will in every move.

Even when fighting "Tanuki" Tsuda Masaaki—a man with no real martial spirit—there had still been a muddled something present.

But this opponent… while his strikes were sharp, there was no intent behind them. No spirit. Just technique.

At the very moment Kazuma realized this, the opponent halted his assault and spoke in a showy tone:

"How does it feel, Kiryu-kun? Your Gatotsu was impressive earlier, but it seems that's the only move you've mastered. Just now your defense was a mess—purely relying on reflexes to block! Admit it. In your current state, you can't defeat me!"

Kazuma flexed his arms, which were tingling from the repeated hits, then calmly removed his helmet and tossed it to the floor.

His opponent, seeing this, grinned broadly, thinking Kazuma was about to surrender.

But in fact, Kazuma had removed his helmet so the man could clearly see the sneer on his face.

When Kimura Nobumori caught sight of Kazuma's expression, his own smile vanished.

Kazuma spoke. "I'll admit, your swordsmanship is excellent. But that's all it is. Swordsmanship isn't something that can be mastered by technique alone. A true swordsman pursues shin-gi-ittai. Your sword lacks life—"

He narrowed his gaze.

"And it lacks a heart."

As Kazuma spoke, he glanced up at his opponent's status bar—just in case the guy triggered a dramatic "flashback boost" and powered up. That would be troublesome.

But nothing appeared above his head.

Even though Kimura was visibly furious, no poetic or dramatic status effects showed.

So this Kimura guy really has no life beyond sword practice, huh? Even this mad and still no flashback trigger?

Kimura snapped back. "That same tired line again! Everyone I beat spouts that nonsense to excuse themselves! Why can't you just admit you're weaker?"

"All this talk of shin-gi-ittai, what a load of garbage! Swordsmanship is just swordsmanship—a reflection of training and skill!"

Kazuma regarded him with pity.

Even now, with Kimura on the verge of an explosive rage state, no status effects appeared.

It was likely true—this man only trained swordsmanship, without passion or joy for life.

In some martial arts fiction, such a figure might be portrayed as an unbeatable "sword fanatic," crushing more vibrant opponents while coolly declaring, "Swordsmanship is not so fragile."

But not in this world.

Kazuma spoke again. "How pitiful. I can already picture your life—spent entirely inside a dojo. You've never seen the sunset over Lake Biwa. You've never marveled at the cherry blossoms of Itsukushima..."

"As if you have!" Kimura interrupted bitterly. "You're just a high schooler who's barely even left Tokyo!"

Kazuma thought, True, but in my past life I was a senior business representative. I traveled all the time on business trips.

Of course, he couldn't say that now.

So he raised his voice and declared:

"Yes—but someday, I will! I'll embrace life fully! I'll never stay confined to one place—I won't be a frog at the bottom of a well named 'dojo,' staring at the sky!"

"You—!" Kimura's forehead veins bulged with rage. Yet still—no status effect.

He raised his sword into a Jōdan stance. "Enough talk! I'll shatter your childish delusions! Prepare yourself, Kiryu Kazuma! Today, I'll take your dojo's sign for my own!"

Kazuma shouted back. "If you think you can, come try! I'll show you how empty your technique truly is!"

"That's enough!" A commanding voice rang out—not loud, but so authoritative that both Kazuma and Kimura froze and turned.

The voice had come from the front entrance of the dojo.

An elderly man, looking to be in his sixties, slid open the door and entered everyone's view.

He wore casual clothes, a soft sun hat, and carried a compact tackle box for fishing gear—clearly on his way to fish.

Behind him stood a towering man in a suit, his expression stern. His massive chest made Kazuma wonder if this guy could lift two of him single-handedly.

And Kazuma wasn't small—tall for his age, with a sturdy, well-muscled build from years of kendo.

Above the suited man's head shone a brilliant gold status effect: Eternal Champion Boxer.

In Japan, such lifetime titles were given in various competitive fields to those who had achieved enduring fame. But Kazuma had never heard of an "Eternal Champion Boxer" before.

The man radiated an overwhelming presence—his muscles looked ready to burst from his suit.

Yet compared to him, the fishing elder seemed far less imposing.

But not to Kazuma.

Though the big man's golden title blazed brightly, it was nothing compared to the terrifying string of titles above the old man's head.

The first was simple and direct:

Sword Saint.

No special effects. Just two stark characters.

Next came: Dragon of Echigo. Anyone familiar with Sengoku history would instantly recognize this—especially since the title had a patterned background: none other than Uesugi Kenshin's Bishamonten battle standard.

As if that weren't intimidating enough, the old man also had a series of temporary buffs.

First: Zen of Tea—"has achieved inner calm through the Way of Tea."

Second: Sound of Shamisen—from having listened to a shamisen performance that morning.

There was even a buff from last night's jōruri performance—though it was about to expire.

Seeing all this, Kazuma felt a complicated mix of awe and frustration. Seriously? I have to master tea ceremony, play the shamisen, and appreciate jōruri just to stack buffs and become the strongest?!

While he reeled at this revelation, everyone in the dojo—including the yakuza watching from the courtyard—bowed deeply to the old man in unison.

Kimura, who didn't recognize the elder, hastily followed suit after seeing the others.

The old man waved a hand. "Enough, enough. I heard there was some commotion and came to have a look—no need for such formalities."

Only then did everyone straighten.

Kazuma glanced at Shirahane Sōgo, who had been strutting moments ago. The man, around fifty, now stood deferentially, like a middle manager before the company president.

From this, Kazuma could guess the old man's identity.

But courtesy demanded he ask.

He respectfully introduced himself. "Rishin-ryū, Kiryu Kazuma. May I ask your name, sir?"

The elder smiled and replied:

"Supreme Leader of the Kanto Union,

Uesugi Sōichirō.

I've heard much about you, Kiryu-kun."

(End of Chapter)