"Damn it! Don't get too arrogant!"
Another furious roar came from the right. A burly man with a solid build and a flushed face stepped forward in large strides, holding a peculiar weapon—a long-handled implement whose end connected a sharp sickle and a heavy iron ball: a chain-sickle.
"Flying Scythe Chain-Sickle Style—Shimazu Shigekuni!"
He stood facing Isshin and assumed his stance. The chain gave a faint clink as the sickle blade and iron ball positioned themselves fore and aft, subtly sealing off Isshin's space for evasion to either side.
Isshin's expression did not change. He replied briefly, "Ashina Style, Isshin."
The moment his words fell, Shigekuni moved!
With a flick of his wrist, the heavy iron ball shot out first with a whistling roar, tracing an arc as it smashed toward the ground at Isshin's side—intended to seal position and interfere. At the same time, he stepped forward. The true killing move was the sharp sickle that followed close behind the iron ball, suddenly striking like a venomous serpent flicking its tongue, soundlessly slashing toward Isshin's ankle.
The combination of mid-to-long-range suppression and bizarre assassination strikes was precisely the essence of chain-sickle combat.
Isshin's gaze sharpened slightly. In the split instant when the iron ball struck the ground and the sickle attacked, his footwork interwove in quick succession. His figure swayed like a willow in the wind, evading the sickle's strange arc by a margin of mere inches with near-instinctive precision. At the same time, he withdrew half a step, perfectly avoiding the possible range of the iron ball after it rebounded.
Seeing his strike miss, Shigekuni immediately shifted tactics. He pulled back his arm, the chain clattering loudly. The sickle and iron ball crossed in the air like living creatures—one slashing at the head, the other sweeping at the legs—an unbroken assault!
Yet Isshin seemed to have already seen through this interwoven pattern of feints and substance.
He no longer retreated. In the subtle gap when the chain techniques had run their course and the old force shifted into new, he suddenly stepped forward, and this time the long blade in his hand finally came fully out of its sheath!
Clang!
The blade-light reversed like a cascading torrent of snow. With greater speed and a straighter path, it thrust directly toward Shigekuni's central axis—forced to remain forward due to his control of the chain!
Turning offense into defense, striking straight at the vital point!
Shigekuni was greatly alarmed. He hurriedly recalled the chain to block while twisting his body aside to evade.
Clang!
The tip of the blade struck the middle of the hastily withdrawn chain, sparks scattering in all directions.
Isshin's wrist shook. A tremendous force transmitted through the chain, and Shigekuni felt his palms grow scorching hot, the chain nearly slipping from his control.
Isshin's blade momentum did not cease. The instant the thrust was obstructed, he pressed downward in the same motion. The blade slid along the chain, and the tsuba crashed heavily into the area beneath Shigekuni's ribs, exposed by his twist.
Bang!
"Urgh—!" Shigekuni cried out in pain. His burly frame shook violently as he staggered backward. His chain techniques collapsed completely, leaving his guard wide open.
Isshin stuck to him like a shadow, snapping out a clean, fast kick that landed squarely in his chest and abdomen.
Thud!
Shigekuni was sent flying backward, his back slamming into the wall at the edge of the dōjō with a muffled impact. He slowly slid down to the floor, the chain-sickle slipping from his grasp, and for the moment he couldn't get back up.
Another exchange—clean and decisive!
Their weapons really were bizarre, varied in all kinds of ways. Were these guys actually swordsmen?
Isshin couldn't help but complain inwardly.
By now the dōjō had fallen into dead silence. The remaining dōjō masters all wore deep wariness and heavy expressions.
Sōichirō still knelt in seiza at the main seat, his face calm as still water, as if the victory and defeat in the ring hadn't stirred even the slightest ripple in his mood.
His gaze swept over the masters on both sides, who sat as quiet as cicadas in winter. His voice wasn't loud, yet it carried an invisible pressure: "Is there anyone else willing to step down and offer guidance to this young swordsman who has come from afar?"
The masters exchanged looks. Some subconsciously averted their eyes. Some lowered their heads to straighten collars that weren't even messy. Others gave a light cough and, putting on a solemn air, stroked their beards as if in deep consideration.
For a time, the dōjō held only the faint rustle of fabric and a slightly awkward silence.
The bold bravado with which they had barked reprimands earlier had vanished without a trace.
"Hmph!"
A low, cold snort suddenly shattered the quiet. Sōichirō's towering body rose in place, the hem of his haori lifting without any wind.
He didn't look at anyone. His right toe merely gave what seemed like a casual, gentle flick to the end of the jet-black iron staff lying across the floor.
Buzz!
That staff—of some unknown material, unbelievably heavy—actually sprang up at his touch, turning into a blurred black shadow as it whistled and spun toward the center of the dōjō!
And Sōichirō himself moved almost in the same instant!
His massive frame erupted with a speed that didn't match his build. Though he moved after it, he arrived first, chasing up to the spinning weapon in midair. His fan-like right hand shot out and firmly caught the whirling killer in his grip!
No declaration of challenge, no greeting—he even dispensed with meeting eyes.
Still in midair, borrowing the momentum of his forward surge and downward drop, Sōichirō gripped the middle of the iron staff with both hands and brought it down on Isshin's head in a stance as fierce as splitting mountains and cracking stone!
Whooosh—!
The iron staff tore through the air with a heavy, mournful wail, as if even the air itself were being crushed and shoved aside by this blow!
Before the staff even arrived, that pure, savage, suffocating wind pressure slammed into Isshin's face, yanking the loose strands of hair on his forehead violently backward!
Faced with this thunderous strike, Isshin's eyes held not the slightest fear. Instead, scorching battle intent flared within them.
His muscles bulged. He neither dodged nor retreated. Exhaling sharply with a shout, he gripped the hilt with both hands and, from low to high, unleashed an unadorned reverse rising slash that gathered the full strength of his body and fiercely swept upward!
"Good!"
Clang!!!!
Blade and staff collided, erupting with a metallic explosion far more terrifying than any previous clash, almost enough to shatter eardrums! Blinding sparks burst forth like fireworks!
An indescribably violent force surged along the blade. Isshin's specially made hard-soled boots scraped fiercely against the bluestone floor, producing a teeth-gritting screech as he was driven backward more than a full meter, plowing two clear furrows across the ground.
His arms tingled slightly, his blood and breath churned—yet his heart tightened, and he grew even more excited. What tremendous strength!
Yet the one more shocked than he was Sōichirō. The strike he had been certain would land—a preemptive blow delivered from above—had actually been blocked head-on by this youth!?
Moreover, the rebounding force transmitted from the other end of the iron staff was heavy and savage, making his arms tremble faintly, nearly causing him to lose his grip!
How could this be?
Born with divine strength and tempered by decades of harsh training, the might of his staff could shatter massive rocks and hardened steel; ordinary warriors collapsed at the slightest touch. Not only had this youth taken it, he still had strength left to send force back in return?
"Good strength!" Sōichirō couldn't help but let out a low roar, his astonishment instantly transforming into blazing battle intent.
The muscles in his arms bulged like twisted steel cables. With a retract and thrust of the iron staff, he shifted from smashing to stabbing. Like a venomous dragon bursting from its lair, the staff drove straight toward Isshin's chest and abdomen!
Faster—more condensed in power!
"Come!" Isshin laughed loudly, as if something feral deep within him had been stirred.
Instead of retreating, he advanced. Twisting his waist and hips, he turned the blade sideways, using the broad tsuba and the spine of the blade as a shield, and met the strike head-on once more!
Boom!!!
The muffled crash was like striking a giant bell. Isshin's body jolted, cracks spreading through the stone beneath his feet. Sōichirō, too, staggered slightly from the recoil.
Their gazes collided. There was no longer the slightest hint of probing—only the most primal exchange of raw strength and berserk fury!
Bang! Bang! Bang! Clang! Clang! Clang!
The center of the dōjō instantly became the eye of a storm!
Isshin completely abandoned maneuvering and finesse. His swordsmanship turned broad and sweeping. Every slash carried immense weight, shrieking as it tore through the air—cleaving, chopping, sweeping—crashing again and again against the whirling black iron staff without the slightest flourish.
Sōichirō's staff technique grew even more ferocious and violent, strikes raining down head-on, sweeping across like an army on the march, pushing the aesthetics of sheer strength to their extreme.
Broken stone flew. Dust filled the air.
Each collision made the entire dōjō tremble. The onlookers had no choice but to retreat repeatedly, their faces filled with horror.
This was not the refined exchange of techniques they understood as swordsmanship—it was two human-shaped beasts contesting strength in the most savage manner possible!
Yet amid this suffocating clash of offense, the storm surging in Sōichirō's heart grew ever more violent.
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