Ishida charged with an overhead strike, a classic 'Jōdan no kamae' leading into a standard men cut. It was a very traditional move. I could see the strain in his shoulders, the slight hesitation as he committed to the attack. He was trying so hard to be perfect.

I didn't move. I simply tilted my head six inches to the left. His sword whistled past my ear, close enough to stir my hair. The crowd gasped.

He pulled back, his face flushing red, and attempted a horizontal sweep. I bent backward at an impossible angle, my spine arching like a drawn bow, and the blade passed over me, close enough to trim a few white hairs. The crowd gasped again.

He was becoming frustrated. His movements grew more aggressive, less precise. He was abandoning the form he had practiced for years, all because his first two simple attacks had failed. It was a fascinating display of psychological collapse.

He abandoned all pretense of technique and charged, swinging his sword in a wild, furious arc. I stood my ground, waiting until the last possible second, and then I took a single step forward. I didn't draw my sword. I just flicked his forehead with my finger. It wasn't hard, but the shock and surprise sent him stumbling backward. He tripped over his own feet and tumbled off the platform, landing in a heap in the dust.

He lay there for a moment, dazed and humiliated. Then he scrambled to his feet, his face a deep, burning crimson. "You... you cheated!" he sputtered.

"I didn't," I said, my voice flat.

"Winner: Tsurugi!" the judge announced, his voice full of confusion.

I hadn't even drawn my sword. I sheathed it and walked off the platform, ignoring the stunned silence and Ishida's humiliated sputtering. The crowd was silent, their faces a mixture of awe and confusion. They had come to see a fight, a display of skill and honor. Instead, they had seen a man defeated by a flick of the finger. It was deeply unsettling.

---

My next opponents were at least attempting something interesting. The Kazama brothers, Kenta and Ko, were identical in every way, from the set of their jaws to the way they tied their obi. They moved onto the platform, their swords drawn at the same time.

"Finally," I muttered, drawing my own blade. "Something that requires a little bit of effort."

They did not speak. They simply attacked, moving in perfect synchronization, one high, one low, creating a swirling sphere of steel that would have shredded most opponents. The crowd cheered, impressed by their seamless coordination.

I stood in the center of their storm, my sword held loosely at my side. I watched their blades flash, their movements a blur of coordinated violence. They were good, technically. But they were predictable. Their synchronization was their greatest strength, and their greatest weakness. They moved as one, thought as one, and therefore, they could be defeated as one.

I waited until the last possible second, then I moved. I employed Hiten Mitsurugi-ryū, a style so fast and aggressive it had been considered a myth for a century. I didn't run or dodge; I simply vanished from between their flashing blades.

My form reappeared behind the left twin, Kenta. My sword was still sheathed, but I drove the hilt into his kidney with a precise, powerful strike. He dropped to his knees with a choked gasp, the air driven from his lungs.

The right twin, Ko, spun, trying to track my impossible movement. I flowed around his next strike, using the principles of 'Mizu no Kokyu'—breathing of water—to make my movements fluid and unpredictable.

I appeared at his shoulder, finally drawing my blade in a single, smooth motion that ended with it resting against the soft skin of his throat.

"Your synchronization has a fatal flaw," I said, my voice a low murmur. "You both inhale just before you launch a major attack. A tiny pause, a revealing signal that predicts your every move."

He swallowed hard, his eyes wide with the realization of his own mistake. He dropped his sword, the blade clattering onto the wooden planks.

"Winner: Tsurugi!" the judge declared, his voice now filled with awe.

He was clutching his side but managed a pained bow. "That speed... what school teaches such a thing?"

"The school of having nothing better to do," I replied, walking away before he could ask another question. The crowd was silent, their faces a mask of disbelief. They had never seen anything like it.

---

My third opponent was a woman named Mitsuko. She was lean and weathered, with a dancer's grace and a smile that did not reach her eyes. She moved like a wind across the platform, her movements fluid and deadly. The crowd was hushed, a mixture of fear and fascination.

"The famous demon," she purred, her voice like honey laced with venom. "I have been dying to meet you."

"The feeling is not mutual," I replied.

"Perhaps." She produced a dozen 'senbon'—thin, needle-like throwing weapons—from a hidden pouch in her sleeve. "Tell me, can a demon be poisoned?"

"Let us find out," I said, my voice flat.

She threw the needles in a complex pattern, a cage of steel designed to be impossible to dodge. I employed the principles of 'Tsuki no Kokyu'—breathing of the moon—my body phasing through the gaps in her attack, my movements seeming to bend and warp in the morning light. The needles flew past me, harmlessly embedding themselves in the wooden post behind me.

"Nightshade. Creative," I noted, plucking one of the needles from the air. "A classic choice. You are trying to do too much with a single toxin."

She laughed, a genuine, delighted sound. "And what would you know of toxins?"

"I know everything." I said. "It is all so boring."

She drew a katana, the blade gleaming with a viscous, dark green liquid. "What about contact poisons? Can your knowledge save you from that?"

She came at me then, her style a rapid, swirling, and chaotic movement. Every strike flowed into the next, the poisoned blade leaving trails of sweet-sick vapor in the air. I matched her move, our swords never quite touching, our bodies weaving around each other in a deadly ballet. The crowd was mesmerized, their eyes wide with a mixture of horror and awe.

"You are not even trying," she observed, her voice a low murmur as we circled each other.

"You noticed." I replied. And shrugged.

I caught her blade between my two fingers, stopping it an inch from my face. The poison's vapor made my eyes water, but the body seemed utterly unconcerned to it. I could feel the tingle, but it was a minor annoyance, and just ignored.

"This is tetrodotoxin," I said. "Pufferfish extract."

I twisted my fingers. Her katana snapped with a clean, sharp crack. She stared at the broken halves of her sword, then at me, her smile finally faltering.

"I yield," she said, her voice filled with grudging respect. "There is no point fighting a man who treats lethal poison like a minor inconvenience."

She bowed, a gesture of respect, and walked off the platform. The crowd was silent, their minds struggling to process what they had just witnessed. A woman, a master of poison, was defeated by a man who didn't even seem to care

My fourth opponent was a European named Wilhelm. He was a giant of a man with a wild red beard and eyes the color of a winter sky. He carried a longsword, a European design, but the blade had been curved and reforged in the Japanese style. He was a man of many cultures, a collector of fighting styles.

"The Crimson-Eyed Demon," he said in heavily accented Japanese. "I have heard stories about you"

"The truth is usually far less interesting than the stories," I replied.

"Then let us see if your skills match your reputation!" he roared, charging with the force of a battering ram.

He opened with German longsword techniques, powerful overhead blows that shook the very platform. I countered with the speed and precision of Itto-ryū, using the katana's lightness to my advantage against his heavier blade. Our swords clashed, a shower of sparks flying in the morning light.

"You know European styles!" he exclaimed, a delighted grin spreading across his face. "How is this possible?"

"I know everything," I said. "It is a burden."

He switched mid-strike to Italian rapier work, his longsword suddenly moving with a speed and precision that was breathtaking. I flowed into the shadow arts of Shinkage-ryū, becoming a phantom, impossible to target.

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.