Yoriichi asked me for a duel—or rather, a match.
His speech had only just begun to flow, and his body was frail, having never known a day of training, let alone proper exercise. Yet, he was challenging me—a man who had already proven he could stand against a grown samurai.
Your courage is commendable, Yoriichi.
Your resolve has indeed reached me.
"Is that so?"
Still, to cross blades with someone as untrained as Yoriichi felt... wrong.
His ability to erase his presence was certainly extraordinary, but...
I was a genius in my own right, was I not? I was Tsugikuni Michikatsu, a boy who had earned the respect of a seasoned warrior in a mere three days.
Regrettably, I would have to refuse.
Wait, a moment. I became this strong after only holding a sword for a few days.
Who was to say that my twin, Yoriichi, wouldn't be the same?
With a mastery of stealth that would make even a Sound Hashira weep, perhaps Yoriichi possessed a talent of his own.
"Indeed, Young Master. Why not allow him a try?"
A man approached, a katana resting at his hip.
It was the samurai acting as my instructor in the ways of the blade.
"The Young Master is busy with his own training, so I shall be your opponent instead, Little Master."
His name was Ito-something-or-other; I didn't care enough to remember it.
The smirk on his face suggested he viewed this as nothing more than a cruel joke. I found it distasteful.
"How... farcical a sight."
"Pardon?"
"It is nothing."
Seriously, why did he want to do this to a boy bound for a temple in three years? It was obvious he just wanted to humiliate the child.
I wanted to refuse, but Yoriichi showed no signs of backing down.
I gave my permission. If things turned ugly, I would step in and mediate.
Ito handed a bamboo sword to Yoriichi, briefly explaining the grip and stance with a dismissive air. Then, he took his own stance and beckoned the boy forward.
And then.
Ito was beaten like a stray dog on a midsummer day.
It wasn't even a single exchange; the man couldn't even mount a defense. In that lone instant, Ito failed to even clash blades. He was struck four times and collapsed.
Yoriichi's bamboo sword had accurately struck the neck, the chest, the stomach, and the leg.
A seven-year-old holding a sword for the first time—after only hearing a brief explanation—had knocked out a samurai whom it had taken me fifteen days to even touch.
Dammit. Yoriichi was a hidden powerhouse. A literal monster.
The only loser here was me.
Yoriichi wore an expression of profound discomfort. He dropped the bamboo sword and approached me.
Shit, I'm in trouble. Of course he's mad. I'm a weakling who's been acting like a big-shot older brother. I'd be pissed too if I were him.
Is this how I meet my end? Tsu/gi/ku/ni/Mi/chi/ka/tsu?
I've only lived seven years plus twenty; I can't die like this.
"You were slow... even in striking him down."
Yoriichi faltered for a moment at my words, then continued his approach.
Was that the wrong thing to say?
He finally stood before me and opened his mouth.
"I no longer wish to become a samurai, brother. The sensation of striking another person is utterly repulsive. For what purpose does swordsmanship even exist?"
Eh?
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Before an attack comes, the lungs expand greatly.
My eyes revealed everything—the direction of the bones, the contraction of the muscles, and the flow of the blood.
I lunged, and the sword made contact.
Where the wood touched flesh, it turned blue and swelled.
It felt as natural as breathing. A natural cause led to a natural result.
Yet, it was loathsome. The act of harming life—the dull thud of striking a human being.
The samurai called Ito lost consciousness.
How unpleasant. Why did my brother seek to learn such a repulsive thing?
Why did such a vile practice exist in this world?
It was not fun; it was merely sickening. It was lesser than even the simplest of games.
I wanted to understand.
So, I approached my brother.
"You were slow... even in striking him down."
As I thought, I did not meet my brother's expectations. It was only natural. That samurai had simply been careless; what I did was something anyone could achieve.
However, there was one thing I had to ask.
"I no longer wish to become a samurai, brother."
Why is it your dream to be a samurai, brother?
"The sensation of striking another person is utterly repulsive."
Why does this thing, which cannot even be called a game, exist in this world?
"For what purpose does swordsmanship even exist?"
Please, teach me, brother.
My brother seemed to lose himself in thought for a moment... before he spoke.
"Yoriichi."
"Yes."
"What is it you fear, Yoriichi? Swordsmanship exists for those who cannot survive without clinging to the blade."
Pardon? What does that mean...
"It is as you say. A sword is a weapon of malice, and swordsmanship is the art of murder. No matter how much one wraps it in grand justifications or flowery words, that truth remains. It is indeed repulsive. Yet, a blade is more than just a tool. Both I and that samurai lying there are merely trying to live fiercely in this chaotic age. For some, it is a means to save people; for others, a means to put food on the table. And for some, it is the very proof of their existence."
"But if, as you say, one must cut down people to save people, and kill to let others live... If that is the truth of the sword, is it not too cruel? Does it not mean someone must always be sacrificed so that another may live?"
"There is no world without sacrifice. Do you still not understand, Yoriichi? We merely give the name 'world' to this temporary hell where ash floats upon a sea of blood."
"That..."
"Bear this in mind, Yoriichi. Everything in this world exists to corner you. The sword is merely one of many means to resist that fate."
@@@
I had just spouted a bunch of pretentious nonsense, but Yoriichi looked as though he had reached some sort of enlightenment.
"More importantly, Yoriichi, how did you perform that technique just now?"
He had struck down an experienced samurai with an untrained body. It was a feat of pure skill.
Usually, in cultivation novels or the like, performing a technique that exceeds one's limits results in muscle pain or fainting, but Yoriichi showed no such signs.
Yoriichi continued in a flat, nonchalant tone.
"Before an attack comes, the lungs expand greatly. One only needs to look closely at the direction of the bones, the contraction of the muscles, and the flow of the blood."
I'm sorry, what?
He made it sound like a simple 'happy little accident.' What kind of nonsense was this?
As I listened to his explanation, I realized Yoriichi could see the bodies of living things as if they were transparent.
Excuse me, Master, but you're moving way too fast for the class.
Just like his innate birthmark, he possessed a special vision and the physical ability to react to it instantaneously.
A true superhuman.
It seemed he mistakenly believed this wasn't a unique gift, but something anyone could do.
Listen, kid, if everyone were a superhuman like you, the Japanese would have conquered the world by now.
He should be the head of the house, not me... wait, hold on.
Ito is going to report this. When he does, our positions will flip. Yoriichi will become the heir, and I'll be the one sent off to the temple.
Isn't this a stroke of divine fortune?
Yes, that's it! That's the plan!
In my eyes, Yoriichi was no longer just a terrifying younger brother who could beat me to a pulp if he felt like it.
This was an evolution.
He had evolved from a 'Terrifying Younger Brother Who Can Beat Me Up' into a 'Terrifying Younger Brother Who Can Beat Me Up But Is Also My Ticket Out Of Here.'
But before that, I needed to see that swordsmanship again!
"I would rather talk of other things than swords, brother. I wish to fly kites with you, or hear more of your stories."
"Yoriichi."
"Yes?"
"Can you show me that swordsmanship again?"
"I..."
"If you do, I shall tell you the sequel to the story—the tale of the *Echoing Jaws of Hell*."
Yoriichi picked up the bamboo sword immediately.