After dinner, it was time for the usual sparring session.
Yoruichi appeared the same as always—dressed in her tight black bodysuit, fighting unarmed, favoring hand-to-hand combat over weapons.
Across from her stood Shirō, face covered with a black cloth, striking a dramatic pose. Though his body was still small, everyone could tell at a glance who he was, no matter the outfit.
A gust of wind stirred, rustling his clothes. In that moment, Shirō's presence seemed almost imposing. To an outsider, it might have looked terrifying—enough to make the average person tremble, stumble back, or even collapse on the spot.
And why did Shirō seem to radiate such overwhelming aura?
Simple. Who wouldn't look intimidating when backed by several hundred black-clad fighters? From the outside, it looked less like a training match and more like a full-blown gang brawl. Anyone who didn't know the truth might even think Shirō was the young master of the Shihōin family, with all those men lined up as his underlings.
Facing Yoruichi, Shirō crossed his arms and, with all the arrogance he could muster, declared:
"Yoruichi! Prepare yourself!"
"Heh… prepare myself?" Yoruichi burst out laughing.
Behind Shirō, the masked fighters all sighed inwardly. Didn't he feel the slightest bit embarrassed? If it were the first day, his bluster could be excused—but after so many beatdowns, wasn't he ashamed to keep shouting the same threats? Every single time, the one left lying on the ground was him.
And yet, this was exactly what impressed them most. In sheer shamelessness, Shirō could match the young mistress herself. Bruised one day, and the very next he'd be back, spouting big words with absolute confidence as if nothing had happened. The black-clad fighters sometimes wondered if he lost his memory after every fight.
They themselves would never even try to speak like that. Thus, by unspoken agreement, Shirō had become the "designated spokesman" before each match, his role as their loudmouthed frontman almost a tradition.
"You think today will be the same as yesterday? Wrong! Totally different! Times are changing, and men must look forward!" Shirō shouted grandly.
"Look forward? Don't tell me—you're about to quote the same line again." Yoruichi cut him off, poking at her ear. "Something about three days making a new man? You've said it so many times I'm sick of it already."
Her mockery didn't faze him in the least. Maybe it was because his face was covered, or maybe because his skin had grown thicker than steel.
"There's still time to surrender," Shirō growled. "Otherwise, don't blame me for showing no mercy—cruel hands against a delicate flower!"
The line was so ridiculous that even the black-clad fighters winced. Surrender? This was supposed to be training. And "cruel hands against a delicate flower"? Coming from a scrawny kid to the Shihōin heiress, it sounded more like comedy than menace.
"I'd like to see you try," Yoruichi raised a brow, amused.
"Ha—hahaha! In that case, don't blame me for what comes next!" Shirō threw his hand forward. "Go!"
The black-clad fighters surged toward Yoruichi. All except one.
While everyone else charged forward, Shirō took several careful steps backward.
"What a coward," Yoruichi muttered, rolling her eyes. "It's not like I'd take you out first." Then she rushed headlong into the group, fists and feet moving in a blur.
Even so, she kept one eye on Shirō, alert for his trademark sneak attacks. It wasn't that his ambushes were dangerous—compared to fighting a hundred at once, his strikes were weak and clumsy. What she feared was accidentally hitting him too hard. Shirō was her final toy, the one she always saved for last.
"Watch my blade!"
"Careful, hidden weapon!"
"Here I come!"
The only person in battle who shouted out moves like this—besides Yoruichi—was, of course, Shirō. She was long accustomed to his antics.
And he wasn't stupid. Most of the time, his fierce declarations were just bluffs; when he did act, it was always silently. Eventually, he started mixing the two—sometimes calling his moves, sometimes not. At first, the inconsistency even threw Yoruichi off balance.
Soon he learned misdirection, too—shouting from one side while launching a trap from the other. Not that he moved fast enough to pull off true feints; he simply laid his traps in advance and timed his distractions to match.
In fact, Shirō's attacks worried Yoruichi more than those of the trained fighters. The masked men were strong, but they always held back—when they hit her, it was nothing more than a scratch. Shirō's ambushes, though crude and underhanded, carried no restraint whatsoever. If he ever landed a blow, it'd hurt.
More importantly, his tricks constantly exposed openings—little gaps where an opponent could be struck. That was valuable training in itself, sharpening Yoruichi's awareness of vulnerabilities in her own style.
It was like a live-action survival game: you weren't truly injured, but if a hit connected, you knew you'd "died."
"This time I'll aim for your eyes!"
"Ha! No, it's your backside I'm after!"
"Careful, a trap underfoot!"
"Don't look left!"
On and on he went, his voice a constant stream of lies and half-truths. Eventually Yoruichi had no choice but to shut him out entirely, ignoring everything she heard and relying only on sight and instinct.
But that was dangerous. Hearing was vital—those subtle shifts of air, the whistle of an incoming strike, all gave hints of danger. If she trained herself to ignore sound entirely, she risked overlooking real threats. It was like fighting with one sense disabled, forced to depend on raw intuition alone.
Yet under Shirō's relentless pestering, that's exactly what happened. Little by little, Yoruichi grew sharper.
From a distance, Shirō smirked. "Heh-heh… she's tuned everything out. Instinct is fine, but if the strike is fast enough, instinct won't save you. Now I've got all the time I need to chant…"
He raised his hand, a steady and low voice:
"Hadō Number Four: Byakurai!"
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150 P.S = 1 Extra Chapter