I, Ayame Kurobane, am a perfectionist. That's what everyone calls me, at least. As much as I want to deny it, I know it's true. Everything that I do is perfect, without flaw, without inaccuracy, and without misjudgment. No matter how difficult something may be, I overcome it without much effort.
At five years old I learned all languages on earth, studied calculus, physics, martial arts, and was able to master them all in a few months. I'm considered an anomaly; some people call me the "Perfect Zero" or the "Impeccable Origin." My parents even gave me the nickname "Imperial Concord."
Needless to say, everyone revered me. I was considered a Homo Perfectionist; a title that speaks for itself.
In my upbringing, I learned many things, and I can teach those things to other people in such a coherent way that even the most advanced AI would pale in comparison.
There was almost nothing left for me to learn on this planet—I did everything possible, except for Olympic Sports, and Swordsmanship.
Olympic Sports have always fascinated me, and seemed the most fun, but if I did it, I'd outshine everyone, and then there would be no one left to challenge me, like in everything else. So what's the point?
But swordsmanship was different. My father was known as the World's Greatest Swordsman, and I couldn't bring myself to beat him.
Not even now.
"Haaaaahhhh!"
A middle-aged man, late in his 40s, wearing a Keikogi and wielding a wooden blade—swung at me from overhead. The air practically vibrated with the force of the strike as I tilted my head to the side, observing his movements.
The swing was textbook to me; I could tell it was strong and precise, but it wasn't exactly perfect; there was a small imbalance in his stance, and a slight shift in his weight, so I stepped to the side as the edge of his blade sliced through the air.
"Hmph." My own blade felt almost weightless in my hand, as though it had been waiting just for this perfect moment. "You're slower than you think, Father," I said calmly with my voice devoid of emotion.
He grunted at me before narrowing his eyes.
"Hah! Don't underestimate experience, girl!"
Experience, yes. I had heard it before. People relied on it, but I didn't need it. I only needed observation and timing. I could anticipate every move, every feint attack, and every hesitation—without a single mistake.
He attacked again, but this time, much lower, aiming for my side—though I stepped aside and swung my sword—akin to swatting a fly.
My wooden blade traced a clean arc, slamming against his wrist. He yelped, more surprised than hurt.
"I-Impressive, Ayame!"
I studied him carefully and could hear his voice waver with unease, but there was also pride buried somewhere underneath that tone of his.
I noticed the tension in his shoulders, the shaking in his grip; I could end this in a single strike, anyone who understood swordsmanship could see that. But I didn't want to, not today, or ever.
"It was nothing but a lucky strike. I still have a long way to go."
Perfection didn't mean crushing others. Especially not him.
Not my Father.
I slowly altered my stance and lowered my guard, letting my movements lose their perfection. And so when my father lunged at me again, I stepped back deliberately, letting him land a strike on my side, purposely tumbling to the floor.
The sting was minimal, and his pride remained untouched.
Once he landed his hit, I falsely winced my eye before he froze, heaving in his chest with a big grin spreading across his face. "Ha... I did it," he said, lowering his blade. "You've grown so strong, Ayame... but today, I've bested you!"
I stood up and sheathed my sword as he did the same. I kept my expression neutral, though a smile slowly rose.
"Yes, Father. You've won today. Even I am no match for you."
His eyes sparkled with pride, completely unaware of the truth as he stepped closer, lowering his guard and letting out a satisfied chuckle.
"I see it now. The years of training and discipline. It all shows! You've become my equal, but today... I am the victor! Pwa ha ha!"
I chuckled at him before nodding politely.
"Indeed. I still have much to learn from you."
He ruffled my hair, laughing at my response.
"You always say that, yet I know it's only a matter of time before you surpass me. But that time isn't now! Your old man still has much to teach you, and that makes me proud!"
I lowered my head and turned away, averting my gaze from his. Father was a proud man who took pride in his swordsmanship.
He's trained for thirty years, ever since he was ten years old, mastering the way of the blade, and yet... here I am; already surpassing him in the first hour.
I have better skill, efficiency, and strategy than my father in his thirty years of hard work. And despite him being known as the Greatest Swordsman to ever live—to the point where people claim him to be equal to Miyamoto Musashi—it was nothing to me.
What's the point of living if nothing can provide me a challenge? What's the point of staying here if I can do everything perfectly? Some people would kill to be in my shoes, and yet, I'll do anything to leave this world and experience an actual challenge.
"Ayame, is something wrong?"
My father spoke to me, questioning why I've gone quiet, but I simply nodded my head.
"Yes. Just thinking about how to get better in swordplay."
He walked over to me, brushing my head with his hand as he ambled towards the door.
"I guarantee if you keep training, you'll surpass me in no time. Just keep up the good work." He placed his thumb on his chest, turning around with that big grin of his. "You have Kurobane blood after all! Pwa ha ha!" He soon opened the door and left with boisterous laughter, leaving me all alone in my thoughts.
"Yes, of course." I long reopened my eyes, staring at the tatami mats beneath my bare feet. "I should be grateful for what I am... but all I feel is emptiness."
+
Later that day, I left Kurobane-ryū Dōjō; a school owned by my father who taught swordplay. It was known as the World's Greatest Swordsman Dojo and was very expensive to take. But people would waste millions to get in and learn the way of the blade to one day rival my father.
I couldn't understand those people. Why waste so much money to learn how to swing a sword? It's not like that's gonna save you from a pistol, or an automatic rifle. People should be spending money on firearms if they want to protect themselves.
"Oh my God, it's Ayame Kurobane!"
As I walked down the sidewalk, garment bag in hand, I glanced across the street. A small group of girls, around my age, stared at me as though I were some celebrity. Pointing and covering their mouths with excitement.
I ignored it since I never knew how to react to that kind of attention. Reverence was more tiring than flattering if you got it every day.
Stopping at the end of a crosswalk, the light turned red, but seemingly out of nowhere, someone tripped behind me.
"Ah! S-Sorry!"
It was a boy, maybe fifteen, who stumbled forward. He tried to regain balance, but physics did its job and carried him straight into me, ramming his shoulder into my back with surprising force.
My foot slipped off the curb, and then... I was in the street. A blinding pair of headlights barreled toward me as a massive delivery truck screeched with its tires rubbing against the asphalt as the driver desperately slammed the brakes.
The wind coming off the accelerating vehicle blasted against my face, but time didn't slow down. It never needed to—not for someone like me.
My body simply calculated everything in an instant; the angle of impact, the distance, the curve of the truck's trajectory, and my own center of gravity.
I twisted my hips, planting my heel on the pavement before launching myself upward.
My body turned in a clean rotation, flipping over the side-mirror of the truck and tumbling into the air, landing perfectly on my feet on the opposite side of the street.
I was safe from immediate death.
"WOOOAAAHHHH!"
"What the hell was THAT?!"
"She just literally flipped over a TRUCK!"
People cheered as they pulled out their phones pointing them at me. I could hear one of the girls from earlier screaming, "AYAME-SAMA IS AMAZING!!"
I dusted off my sleeves calmly, as though I had merely stepped over a puddle. The boy who tripped ran to the curb, horrified.
"I-I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't!"
"It's fine." I said, offering him a small nod. "You didn't push me intentionally. I'm unharmed."
"B-But you could've died!"
"Unlikely."
That was an understatement.
The truck driver jumped out of his vehicle, panting and sweating through his shirt.
"H-Hey kid, are you okay?! I couldn't stop in time!"
"It was not your fault either." I replied. "No one could have, so I simply moved, that's all."
"'That's all,' she says..." One bystander muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.
Someone else yelled excitedly.
"That flip was cleaner than an Olympic gymnast!"
I bowed politely to the growing crowd before pulling my garment bag over my shoulder and walking onward. People clapped as if I had just performed for them, but the applause felt hollow.
Just like everything else in my life.
I crossed the next intersection, leaving the scene behind me, but the feeling in my chest didn't fade away.
"Even near-death experiences can't challenge me." I muttered under my breath. "Is there truly nothing in this world worth struggling for?"
I felt like that question would linger forever throughout my life. And perhaps it will.