It's been 2 weeks since Tatsuya arrived at the swordsman corps. His training has been going better than expected.
Aoi told him that if he kept his discipline going she may consider him ready for Deshi.
The way you get to an higher rank is mostly through the opinion of your instructor. At least in the low ranks like his.
Only when you get to the advanced ranks like Kensei and Chūdan, duals are in order to rank up.
When you get to the master level, it's the only thing that's important. Defeat the opponent who's higher rank than you.
There is also the thing that your instructor can only rank you up until their rank.
So if you a and your instructor are both Chūdan then they can rank you up any more.
The thing Tatsuya is struggling with most is exactly his stamina. The Sword Art of Water is highly technique based and he caught up with the techniques pretty quickly.
It was always something he possessed, if it was a new sport he learn in school he caught up quickly with the techniques of it.
Aoi told him that he may be close to Kensei level, not that he is some kind of prodigy kid because the Sword Art Of Water is the easiest to learn. That's why it's the most common.
The fact that Tokagame and Micah also taught him, gave him a boost. But he does learn the technique faster that the majority of corps members.
What is unusual is that he only learned one Sword Art. Members below the rank of Kensei aren't allowed to focus on one.
The reason why Tatsuya has only been taught one is because of Aoi.
Instead of learning the basics of all five Arts, she believes it's more beneficial in the long run to focus on one Art.
Mastering all five Arts in modern times isn't seen as necessary because, aside from the sheer difficulty, battlefields and duels have grown increasingly specialized—most swordsmen now refine one Art to perfection, relying on allies to cover other styles rather than stretching themselves thin across them all.
It is going against the corps policy but Aoi is stubborn like that.
Tatsuya's footsteps echoed down the polished wooden hallway, each clack bouncing between the paper-paneled walls like a sound too loud for the silence it lived in.
He didn't know when he was going back to the mansion. His reason for starting his training with Tokagame was to became strong enough to protect Ruza.
But he felt like being away from her for so long meant that something bad could have happened when he was gone.
Tatsuya's wished he could talk to the master of the swordsman corps to discuss this. But he hasn't heard of him since he got here.
I need to keep my patience. Tatsuya thought to himself. The others will protect her.
He passed a group of three trainees by the corner near the training courtyard. They weren't talking when he walked up, but judging by how quickly one of them suddenly became deeply fascinated by the grain of the floor, and another suddenly decided their sandals needed urgent inspection, he could guess they'd been talking about him.
It wasn't paranoia—paranoia requires uncertainty.
It started right when he arrived here. Little glances at first. The kind people toss your way when they're still deciding whether you're dangerous or just weird. Then the whispers came. Then the distance. Now, it was like the whole building had been coated in a thin layer of oil that everyone was careful not to spill by coming too close to him.
Even the way they avoided him had flavors. Some carried curiosity, the kind that leans in just enough to catch the details but not enough to get burned. Others carried suspicion, that half-step back when he passed, like he might suddenly draw a sword on them. And then there were the rare ones who had fear in their eyes—real, bone-deep fear—though for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why.
The rumors didn't help.
He hadn't heard them directly, but he'd felt them. The kind of made-up stories that spread faster than an actual explanation ever could. That he'd been sent here as Tokagame's personal student because he'd killed a man. That he was some wandering swordsman with blood debts in other provinces. That he wasn't even human.
The most ridiculous one—at least, so far—was that he'd challenged Tokagame to a duel and won, which was funny enough to almost make him want to start that one himself.
But under all the noise, there was the real question everyone seemed to have, the one no one was asking him directly:
Why did Tokagame train him at all?
Not "a student." Not "someone from the Corps." Him.
Tatsuay know the answer of course, Yatsu Davida.
As he walked past the weapons rack toward the outer garden walkway, a pair of advanced-ranked swordsmen stepped aside—not out of courtesy, but the kind of calculated avoidance that said they'd rather walk into a wall than brush shoulders with him.
He tried not to let it bother him, but… okay, fine, it bothered him. More than he wanted to admit.
Because the truth was—every stare, every whispered half-truth—felt like a weight he couldn't shrug off. And with Aoi's unorthodox training methods already putting him at odds with Corps policy, it was only a matter of time before people started thinking he was the problem.
Which, to be fair, he was.
The corridor leading toward the east training yard was narrower than the rest, the kind where two people could pass comfortably if they wanted to. Which, judging by the trio of corps members heading his way, they didn't.
Tatsuya recognized them—not by name, but by the way they always clustered together like stray dogs guarding the same scrap of meat. Rank: somewhere above him, but not high enough to matter.
They didn't move aside.
"Hey," the one in front said, drawing out the word like it was bait on a hook. "You're the new one. The one Tokagame handpicked."
Tatsuya kept walking, eyes fixed ahead. If he ignored them, maybe—
"You don't bow?" another chimed in, stepping just enough into his path that he had to stop or bump shoulders.
And just like that, the air felt heavier. Not the weight of intimidation—just the kind of heat that builds right before you say something you shouldn't.
He let out a slow breath. "…Do you need something?"
The first one smirked. "Just curious. Heard a lot about you. They say Aoi-sama's breaking Corps rules just to train you. Special treatment."
"Must be nice," the second added. "Not having to go through the usual grind like the rest of us."
Tatsuya's jaw tightened. "Yeah. It's great. I recommend it. All you have to do is get dragged and thrown into a battlefield you weren't ready for, and watch someone you care about die in front of you. Real shortcut."
The smirk faltered for half a second, but the third one—a stockier guy with too much confidence—stepped closer, voice low. "You talk like that to everyone, foreigner? Or just to the ones you think won't hit back?"
The sound of their laughter—sharp, echoing in the hallway—hit him like a thrown stone. The present bled away, the world dissolving into the cold concrete of another lifetime.
Bzzzz—crash.
The screech of chairs, the smell of iron in the air.
Yuto Kuzawari's voice in his ears.
The weight of the knife in his hands.
The way Haruki's scream cut short into a wet gurgle.
The sound of his knife tearing through Ren's flesh.
Blood on his shoes. Blood everywhere.
And the voice.
That cold, coaxing voice, urging him forward—telling him to kill again.
For a single, blistering heartbeat, his vision went red.
It would be so easy. One strike. Two. Their smug faces would never look at him again.
He looked at the three of them. Really looked. And saw nothing worth the effort.
The red faded, leaving only the hollow pit in his chest and the distant echo of that other self—the one who didn't stop in time.
Without a word, he stepped around them.
"Yeah, walk away," the first called after him. "Wouldn't want to mess up that special treatment."
His hands itched all the way down the hall. Every step felt like dragging a blade through stone.
He wasn't going to be that person again.
Part 2
The training yard was empty at this hour, the sun casting long slats of shadow through the slatted wooden fence. Somewhere in the distance, the faint tok-tok-tok of wooden swords clashing drifted over, but here it was still.
Tatsuya leaned against one of the posts, hands planted on the rough wood. They were trembling. Not from exertion—training hadn't even started yet—but from something far uglier.
His reflection wavered in the shallow water of the nearby practice pond. The same face. The same eyes. The same person who—once upon a time—hadn't walked away.
"Damn it…" His voice was barely a whisper, but it still sounded too loud in the quiet. He flexed his fingers, trying to shake the phantom weight of a knife from his grip.
"You didn't kill them."
The voice was calm, precise—and much closer than he'd expected.
He turned. Aoi stood on the edge of the yard, her violet eyes steady on him. No judgment, no surprise—just that impenetrable stillness she carried like armor.
Tatsuya opened his mouth, but nothing came out. What was there to say? That his chest still ached from holding himself back? That he'd been one blink away from repeating the same mistake?
"You wanted to," she said, taking a slow step closer. Not a question.
He looked away. "…I didn't."
"That is why you are still here," she replied simply. "And why you will become stronger than they can imagine."
Her words weren't praise. They weren't comfort. They were fact—stated in the same tone she might use to point out a shift in the wind before a storm.
Aoi didn't wait for him to answer. She passed him, the faint swish of her hakama brushing the air, and paused just long enough to add—
"Next time, make sure your hands are steady for the right reason."
Before Tatsuya had time to process what she meant by it, she throw a wooden practice sword at him.
"-Oof!" Tatsuya's reaction time was just fast enough to catch the bokken before it hit him.
"Now get up, we'll start training."
He sat there for a moment, still holding the not-quite-bruise on his sternum. "…You could've just asked."
"I did," she replied. "You didn't move. So I asked louder."
There it was again—that deadpan delivery that made it impossible to tell if she was joking or being terrifyingly sincere.
Tatsuya sighed, picked up the bokken, and stood. "Alright, what's on the menu today? More water stance drills until my knees cry for mercy?"
Aoi's eyes narrowed a fraction—her equivalent of a smile. "We will practice avoiding strikes."
"That sounds reasonable."
"Without blocking."
"…Less reasonable."
"While I am holding two swords."
He blinked. "…Okay, so you woke up this morning and just chose violence."
Aoi didn't answer. Instead, she reached over to the rack, drew two practice swords, and took her stance in one fluid motion.
"Begin."
The first strike came faster than he expected—way faster—and he barely managed to sidestep without losing a tooth. The second followed immediately, and the third… well, the third reminded him exactly why sparring with Aoi was like trying to out-dance a thunderstorm.
Somewhere between the eighth and ninth swing, he finally called out, "You know, for a drill about not attacking, this feels suspiciously like attempted murder!"
"Then stop standing where my sword is," she said, not even out of breath.
By the time they took a break, Tatsuya was doubled over, catching his breath, while Aoi stood there as calm as if she'd just gone for a slow morning walk.
"You lasted longer than last week," she said.
"Yeah," he managed between gulps of air. "I only almost died seven times instead of ten. Progress."
Aoi tilted her head, and—just for a second—there was the faintest glimmer in her eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or approval. It was hard to tell with her.
By the time the sun had started to dip low enough to paint the courtyard in warm gold, Tatsuya's arms felt like they were about to detach themselves and file for emancipation.
"Again," Aoi said, voice level.
Tatsuya groaned. "We've been doing the same motion for half an hour."
"That is because you have been doing it wrong for half an hour."
He brought the wooden sword up, trying to mimic her posture, her angle, her precision. And—just like every other time—her sharp "Stop" cut through before he even finished the movement.
"What now?" he asked, exasperation bleeding into his tone.
"Your wrist."
"My wrist is fine."
"It is not fine. It is attempting to impersonate a chicken."
He blinked at her. "…A chicken?"
She stepped forward, nudging his hand into place with the tip of her bokken. "Stiffer. Straight. No stray angles. You keep breaking the flow."
"I am keeping it straight," he argued.
"No," she said without hesitation, "you are keeping it wrong consistently."
Tatsuya's eyebrow twitched. "That's—okay, technically true, but you don't have to say it like that."
They reset. He tried again. Failed again. The correction came again. And by the tenth repeat, his teeth were clenched so hard he was in danger of grinding them down to dust.
Finally, after another attempt that earned nothing more than a quiet "Wrong," he dropped his bokken to his side and exhaled through his nose. "At this point, I'm convinced the problem isn't my form—it's that my body's in some kind of rebellion against the concept of good technique."
Aoi, ever unreadable, simply said, "Then we will train until your rebellion is crushed."
"Great. Wonderful. Love the sound of that," he muttered, rolling his shoulders.
The worst part? He knew she was right. And somehow, that was exactly what made it so damn irritating.
Tatsuya glared at the wooden sword in his hands, muscles aching and ego bruised, when Aoi stepped forward again.
She raised her bokken with that same effortless grace, every motion precise and deliberate.
"Watch carefully," she said, and with a single fluid swing, she executed the technique he had been struggling with for what felt like hours.
The blade moved like water, slicing through the air with perfect timing, every angle exact, every step balanced. The air itself seemed to part politely around her movements.
Tatsuya's jaw tightened. "…I hate this."
"Do you understand now?" she asked, voice calm, eyes steady.
"Yes! I understand! You make it look ridiculously easy!" He jabbed the bokken at the ground, frustration spilling out. "I've been repeating this for half a day, and you just—just—"
"Execute it correctly," she finished for him. Her lips didn't curve, but the faintest tilt in her head suggested she knew exactly how much he was seething.
He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's like the sword has a mind of its own when I touch it."
"Then learn its mind," she said simply. "That is the difference between control and chaos."
He gritted his teeth, muttering under his breath, "You're not helping…"
And yet, despite his irritation, part of him couldn't deny it—he did understand. Aoi's demonstration was infuriatingly perfect.
It wasn't that the technique Aoi displayed was more difficult or complex than the techniques he already learned.
Just for some reason today, nothing seem to go his way. He wasn't focused or he was just to focus, like he was overthinking every move.
"Stop." She said again.
Tatsuya froze mid-swing, feeling the tension drain out of his shoulders. "…Already? I was just—"
"Did you struggle today because of what happened with the three Corps members earlier?" Aoi's tone was calm, but her violet eyes pierced straight through him, as if she could read every thought he refused to say aloud.
He froze.
She was right, they were the only thing that was on his mind. And for some reason he couldn't shake them away.
He know that it didn't propose anything, encounters like that we on daily bases back on earth. Than why does it bother him so much?
"You cannot let that linger," she said simply. "You acted correctly. You walked away, restrained yourself when it mattered. That is strength, not weakness. Do not confuse restraint with failure."
He swallowed, looking down at the bokken in his hands. All the frustration, the irritation from the endless repetitions, the self-doubt from earlier—it all weighed on him. But her words… they didn't scold him. They didn't belittle him. They simply acknowledged the choice he had made, the one that mattered most.
"…Right," he said quietly, almost to himself.
"Good." She paused, taking a step back and lowering her bokken. "That is enough training for today. Rest. Reflect. Tomorrow, we continue—but without letting yesterday's shadow hold your blade back."
Tatsuya exhaled, the tension in his chest loosening slightly. "…Understood."
As he watched her turn and walk toward the edge of the yard, the feeling returned to him. The day had been hard. Frustrating. Even humiliating.
But at least he could go to bed now.
Part 3
He walked back to the dorms. The golden light of late afternoon stretched long shadows across the courtyard.
A shadow detached itself from the corner of the building, moving with a predatory ease that made Tatsuya freeze mid-step.
"Kizutoro," he muttered.
"Ah, so it's you," the boy said, voice low and laced with contempt. His sharp eyes glittered like a predator sizing up prey. "I've been hearing about your little… rise in training. Aoi-sama's pet, huh?"
Tatsuya's jaw tightened. "…I don't want trouble."
"Oh, trouble?" Kizutoro took a step closer, and the air seemed to shrink around him. "You think you're anything? All bark, no bite. The corps whispers about you like you're some kind of special case—but we all know the truth. You're weak. You're soft. You walk around pretending you belong here, but everyone sees through the act."
Tatsuya stopped walking. His fingers itched—not at the bokken this time, but at the weight of his own pulse. The muscles in his shoulders coiled.
Kizutoro leaned in, eyes narrowing. "You're a joke, Tatsuya. A failure in the making. And I—oh, I'll enjoy proving it to you."
It was the final spark. The words he had held in check—the simmering frustration, the echo of all the bullying, the helplessness he had carried like a chain—flared inside him like a wildfire.
The world tilted. Every sound became muffled. The courtyard, the sunlight, the distant chatter of corps members—it all faded into the background, replaced by the pounding of his own heartbeat.
He saw red—not just in his mind, but behind his eyes. And in that red, every insult, every humiliation he had endured, every moment of restraint he had forced himself to uphold, exploded into a single, raw, burning anger.
"Enough," Tatsuya said, voice low, steady, and terrifying in its calmness. "I've had enough of people like you."
The space between them felt charged, like static before a storm.
Every fiber in Tatsuya's body screamed to strike, to lash out, to punish—but something held him back. The memory of Aoi's words earlier, of the restraint he had managed with the three Corps members, anchored him. He could feel the fire, but he could also feel the edge.
And just like that, the red receded. The shadows slackened. He stepped forward—not aggressively, but deliberately, closing the space without raising a hand.
"You're pathetic," he said coldly. "And the corps would be better off without your ego."
Tatsuya's hands didn't shake as he moved. The moment Kizutoro opened his mouth to sneer again, something inside Tatsuya snapped entirely.
Before Kizutoro could react, Tatsuya was on him, pressing him to the ground. The wooden swords, the training—they were gone. Only the raw surge of emotion remained.
He landed a punch to Kizutoro's face. And then another. And another. The blows landed with all the fury he had ever bottled up in his life.
But Kizutoro barely flinched. His jaw remained unbroken, his teeth unshaken, his eyes wide—not in pain, but in shock.
Tatsuya's fists weren't striking flesh. They were striking… him. His ego. His arrogance. His resentment. His hatred. Each punch carried the weight of every insult, every mocking glance, every whisper of dismissal he had endured since arriving at the Corps.
"WHAT DID I DO TO YOU!" Tatsuya screamed, voice raw, trembling, echoing across the quiet courtyard.
Kizutoro blinked, sweat forming on his brow, but still, he didn't move.
"What did I DO WRONG!" Tatsuya's next shout tore through the air, his chest heaving violently as if every breath demanded an answer. "WHY DO YOU GUYS HATE ME SO MUCH!!"
The punches continued—more desperate, more furious, but utterly ineffective in the physical sense. And yet, the air around Kizutoro felt heavy. Each blow carried the weight of Tatsuya's pain, his anger, his isolation, his humiliation.
Kizutoro gasped, eyes wide, sweat dripping, as if Tatsuya's words and blows were slicing through his very soul rather than his body. He couldn't answer. He couldn't comprehend.
Tatsuya's fists hovered just above Kizutoro's face. He didn't strike again. The impact had already been delivered, not to flesh, but to the pride, the ego, the entitlement that had driven every insult and every sneer.
"Do you even realize…" Tatsuya's voice cracked, trembling but loud, "what it feels like to be looked at… like you're nothing?"
Kizutoro stammered, trying to speak, but the words lodged in his throat, unworthy of the storm pressing down upon him.
"I've worked myself to the bone!" Tatsuya continued, voice rising with every word. "I've trained, I've endured, I've restrained myself because I knew the right thing to do!"
"And all you do is—" His voice broke again. "All you do is make it worse! Every sneer, every insult, every whisper in the halls! Why… why do you have to hate me so much?!"
Tatsuya's fists finally fell—lightly, almost ceremonially—against Kizutoro's shoulders, not to injure, but to punish in the only way left: by forcing him to feel the weight of every ounce of Tatsuya's suffering.
Kizutoro's eyes were wide, unblinking. The bravado that had defined him for so long had been stripped bare. For the first time, he was confronted with a rawness he couldn't dodge: the reality of all the anger and pain that had been pushed down, hidden behind Tatsuya's quiet exterior.
"You…" Kizutoro finally whispered, voice trembling, "…you're insane."
Tatsuya leaned back slightly, letting the silence settle between them. His chest heaved with effort, not from exertion, but from the sheer force of having poured out everything he had bottled up inside.
"You don't get it," he murmured, voice low, almost cold. "And maybe you never will. But this… this is how it feels. Understand that."
Kizutoro couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't even blink fast enough to erase the memory of the intensity pressing down upon him. And in that moment, he understood something terrifying: Tatsuya's rage was nothing like ordinary anger. It was a storm that lived inside him, and today, he had let it speak.
He did have a thought in his mind, a terrifying, bone chilling thought that even could make the strongest of swordsman shiver.
The thought became only more a reality the more he breathed in. Making him want to choke himself just to escape it.
It made the strongest heroes shiver, laid the strongest mages into their graves. The heavenly saints, the dragon, The mage and The sage weren't a match for it.
Kizutoro had never came so close with it. The stench that held the world in it's hand.
Threatening to devour it, making it it's slave.
That overwhelming stench that consumed him with every breath he took, coming of from the boy in top of him. Who screamed like an defeated child.
Was The Sent Of The Devil.