Toshio POV
I was beginning to regret walking up to Reigando Cave today. The memories of last night with Kuroka replayed in my mind, her laughter mingling with the warmth of her body pressed against mine. There was a unique bond between us now, one that blurred the lines of friendship and something more intimate. I already missed that connection.
But reality had a way of creeping back in, and the moment I spotted Miyamoto sweeping the same patch of ground he had been obsessively tending to since I first met him, a sense of foreboding washed over me.
"Hey old man. That spot still isn't clean, huh?" I called out, half-expecting the usual bizarre exchange.
Sure enough, he responded with that wild, unpredictable energy I had grown accustomed to. Without a word, he hurled the broom directly at me. I barely managed to dodge, leaning to the left just in time.
"Good! If you couldn't dodge that I'd send you back home with a box of crickets!" he cackled, the gleam in his eye half-mad, half-playful.
"Or I'd be dead," I shot back, rubbing my forehead in irritation as I turned to see the broom stick lodged in one of the nearby Buddha-like statues. My eyebrow twitched.
The old man was suddenly in my face, invading my personal space. I instinctively concentrated Reiryoku to my nose, blocking out his pungent aroma that threatened to invade my senses.
"I have a few rules," he declared, his spittle flying dangerously close to my face.
I stepped back, only to find him stepping forward, relentless.
"No magical nonsense. No practicing magic. No technology. AND ABSOLUTELY NO BATHING!" He punctuated each rule with an emphatic jab of his finger in my face. I winced, incredulous.
"What do you mean!? What's up with that crazy rule?!" My mortification must have been evident.
"You can never be caught unawares. Bathing makes you vulnerable. You'll have to be on the lookout for surprise attacks at any moment!" He seemed genuinely serious, which only added to my growing frustration.
"Fine." I crossed my arms, feeling the tension in my shoulders.
"And if you use magic mumbojumbo to clean yourself I'll stop teaching you!" My eyes widened. That was exactly what I had planned to do.
"What does it matter if it keeps me alert?!"
"Because I said so! No magic!"
I couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret for coming here. I thought I was signing up for a traditional training regimen with a legendary swordsman, not a series of absurd rules dictated by an eccentric old man.
Miyamoto turned on his heel and began walking toward the cave, and I was about to follow when he pivoted back around almost instantly.
"AND WHERE ARE MY PANTIES?!" The words boomed out of him with surprising ferocity, and my eyebrow twitched again.
"I didn't know you wore any," I smirked, reveling in the opportunity to retort.
Before I could react further, he delivered a gut punch that sent me sprawling backward, air rushing from my lungs.
I landed hard on the stone ground, rolling several feet before coming to a stop. When I looked up, gasping for breath, the old man was standing over me with that unhinged look in his eyes.
"GIMME." His voice carried the intensity of someone who'd lost their last marble years ago.
I pushed myself up, still winded from the unexpected punch. Reaching into my inventory, I pulled out the white cotton panties—plain with a small pink bow on the waistband. Being Kendo captain had its perks; I could have asked almost any girl in the club and they wouldn't have questioned it. But I'd acquired these discretely. There was no way I was having my name associated with the future pervert trio, even indirectly.
The old man snatched them from my hand faster than I could track. How the hell did he move so fast?
Miyamoto turned away from me, but I could clearly see him bringing the fabric to his nose and inhaling deeply. I had to wince and look away.
"Even used and sweaty! Now come, my dear student! I'll show you your living quarters!" He clutched the panties in a white-knuckle grip like someone might steal them.
We started walking toward the cave, which wasn't what I'd expected. This was a tourist attraction—surely I wouldn't be sleeping on the cave floor. I kept my thoughts to myself and followed the perverted old coot who treated those panties like a precious treasure.
"This had better be worth it," I mumbled under my breath.
"I would think it would be, welp!" How did he even hear that? I was several feet behind him!
We entered through a secret door hidden behind the shrine. I was surprised to find a fairly spacious house-like structure carved into the rock. The walls were smooth stone, while the floors and ceiling were traditional tatami. Very Japanese, which made sense given the location.
Miyamoto pointed to a small room. "This is where you'll sleep. When you're not sleeping, you'll be training."
I noted it contained only a floor futon and a nightstand. Spartan, but functional for sleeping.
"You'll piss and shit outside. Don't let people see you doing it either. The cave's Google rating will go down. I won't let it happen again!" Why did he even care about online reviews? And again?
We moved to a basic kitchen next.
"You'll prepare breakfast, lunch and dinner here. After this tour, go get groceries. It's about a two-hour walk from here. Breakfast is at 5am, lunch at 12pm, dinner at 8pm. You'll have an hour to prepare each meal." This was more structured than I'd anticipated.
He led me outside to a large rock that sat atop the building built into the cave's mouth. The shrine wasn't far away.
"Here is where you'll meditate to find your ki." I wondered if I could even manage that, considering my unique spiritual makeup.
We moved on to a different hidden door, which was made entirely of stone, built to hide in a cave wall. We entered, walked down a dark hallway, and it opened up to a massive, well-lit training room made from rock, with many boulders and rocks sprinkled throughout.
"This is where you'll train your sword and where I'll beat your as- where we'll spar," the old man explained, his tone suddenly shifting mid-sentence.
"Nice save..." I muttered, not caring if he heard me.
"In the morning after breakfast, you'll do physical conditioning and then meditate. Then after lunch, you'll either be learning sword katas or getting your ass bea- spar with me." How he managed to say that with such a serious, straight face was beyond me.
"Now, go get groceries. Here's the list. Now I have a very important appointment to get to. Shoo!" He waved me away dismissively.
I shook my head and headed out. Before I made it to the stone hallway, I heard the old man give a huge sniff. I stopped mid-step and deadpanned, then sighed heavily and continued on my way.
XXX
The next day
"This will be your physical workout. I see your body is pretty developed, for a human. But that's not good enough! So this is what you'll do." That damned old man was still holding those panties. They seemed just a slightly darker shade of white than they were yesterday. Gross.
The workout consisted of moving rocks and boulders. Running with rocks and boulders. Throwing rocks and boulders. Squatting with rocks and boulders. Pushups with...you get the point. If anything, my grip strength should shoot through the roof.
1 hour later
"I won't lie, you're stronger than I expected. But your sword strikes are still weak." The old man was sitting on top of a large boulder that was on my back while I did pushups. I was drenched in sweat. These were not ordinary rocks. They were much heavier than they should have been.
"I don't think we'll spend as much time on physical conditioning as I planned. You obviously suck at using a sword, so we'll focus more on that. Well, depending on how well you do with ki." I wanted to twitch my eyebrow or retort, but I was currently trying not to get crushed.
After lunch
I was sitting in a familiar meditative position.
"What do you know about ki?" Miyamoto asked, his tone suddenly serious.
"Well, that depends on who you ask. As far as how it actually works, I'm not so sure."
"Hmm. As expected. You're stupid." He said it so sagely that I got a tick mark on my head. But I didn't retort because the old man would just ignore me anyway.
"Ki is the fundamental life energy that flows through all living beings," he began, his voice taking on an almost professorial quality that seemed at odds with his usual eccentricity.
"Ki, at its core, is life energy—pure and undiluted. Unlike magic, which requires external formulas, circles, and spoken intent, ki is internal, instinctive. It flows through the body like breath through lungs or blood through veins—always present, but rarely understood." He gave me a side eye to see if I was listening. He continued.
"It's the animating force of the living, tied not to intellect but to vitality, discipline, and presence. Where magic bends the world through knowledge, ki exerts will through existence. It's strength born from unity between body, mind, and spirit—no chant, no circle, no permission. Just power, drawn from the self. Fundamentally different from mana and magic."
I found myself paying rapt attention. This was the first time he'd spoken about anything with genuine seriousness.
"Most humans can only access their physical ki through intense training, but few have ever been able to tap into it," he continued, beginning to pace around me in slow circles. "Warriors throughout history have tapped into ki through discipline and training. Some races, such as them cat people, have an instinctual advantage to learn it." I thought of Kuroka and Koneko. I'm sure being referred to as "them cat people" would leave them less than pleased.
"To become a true martial artist and sword master, you must learn this skill. I imagine it will be difficult for a brat like you." My eye twitched.
"You've got all that weird spiritual, magical energy floating around in you," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "Most people would never be able to sense ki properly with all that interference. But if you can learn to separate the two energies, to compartmentalize them..." He grinned, and for the first time since I'd met him, it didn't look entirely unhinged. "Well, let's just say you might surprise yourself."
I closed my eyes and tried to focus inward, searching for something that felt different from my reiryoku. At first, all I could sense was the familiar circulation of my spiritual energy, flowing through pathways I'd grown accustomed to over months of cultivation.
"Stop that," Miyamoto said sharply, and I felt the familiar sting of his shinai across my head.
"Ow! What was that for?"
"Don't do that. Whatever you just did. You're channeling that weird power in you. That isn't ki. I would say it was magic, but that was only a small part of it. It's weird."
"So I've been told." Was probably the fusion of reiryoku and mana. In the back of my mind, I wondered what it would be like if it fused with ki…
"Well quit it. I told you, no magic mumbo jumbo." He settled back onto his haunches, still clutching those increasingly grimy panties. "Ki isn't something you force or manipulate like your other power. It's something you discover. Something you allow to flow naturally."
I rubbed the sore spot on my head and tried again, this time attempting to quiet the circulation of my reiryoku entirely. It was harder than I expected—like trying to stop breathing consciously. It wasn't going well.
"You think too much," he said, tapping two fingers against my chest. "Ki ain't something you understand here." Then he tapped his temple. "It's here. It's breath and blood. Movement and stillness. It's the shape your life takes when you stop lying to yourself." He rose slowly, brushing dust from his dirty clothes. It didn't make a difference. "Magic uses symbols. Words. Circles. But Ki? Ki is honesty. You can't fake it. Can't borrow it. You find it when your body and spirit stop arguing long enough to listen."
I sighed, feeling the weight of his words settle over me. The old man was right—I was overthinking it, approaching ki like it was just another magical formula to master. But it wasn't. It was something fundamentally different.
"So how do I stop arguing with myself?" I asked, genuinely curious despite my growing frustration.
Miyamoto's grin widened, showing teeth that had seen better decades. "Pain usually works."
Before I could ask what he meant, he struck me across the ribs with his shinai. The blow wasn't devastating, but it was sharp and unexpected, forcing a grunt from my lungs.
"Focus on the pain," he instructed, circling me like a predator. "Don't think about it. Just feel it. Where does it start? Where does it end? What does it want to become?"
I tried to follow his guidance, centering my attention on the throbbing ache in my side. The pain was immediate, honest—there was no pretense to it, no complex theory behind its existence. It simply was.
"Good," Miyamoto nodded approvingly. "Now breathe into it. Not with your mind, with your body." It wasn't working.
Shinjuka, any hints on how to do this? Oh right she was in my inventory right now. I didn't have a chance to pull her out yet with the old man's craziness. I opened his eyes and started to pull the sword out of my inventory.
"Hey! I said no magic!" the old man barked, raising his hand to smack me again.
Before he could, I unsheathed Shinjūka just enough for her edge to glint. "It's not magic. And I have to have my sword to do this. She's a part of my soul."
That made him freeze. His expression changed completely—eyes wide, mouth slack with some emotion I couldn't place. Awe, maybe. Slowly, reverently, he reached out to the blade resting across my lap. His fingers brushed against the sheath.
"This sword… no, this being... what is this?" he whispered, voice low like he was speaking in a shrine.
"Kid, may I?" he asked, gesturing to her. I didn't see the harm, so I offered her up carefully. But before he took her, he paused.
"Do you mind?" he asked—not to me. To her.
I blinked. I'd heard Shinjūka say no in my head, clear as ever… but the old man just nodded, like he'd heard her too.
He picked her up anyway. Drew her blade slowly, precisely. His face softened as the metal caught the light.
"How magnificent…" he murmured. "What tremendous potential."
I already knew Shinjūka was special, but the look on his face—it was like he was seeing something beyond the steel. Beyond even me. He slid the blade back into its sheath with expert grace and handed her back to me with both hands.
"That's one of the most beautiful blades I've ever seen. You'd better treat her well," he said flatly. Not a suggestion. A warning. The kind a father gives when he's sizing up the man who just met his daughter.
"How the hell did you—" I started.
"I can see why you sought me out," he cut in, calm as a still pond. "Your blade, Shinjūka, deserves a sword master with the best and most fitting style."
That stopped me cold. I stared. "How do you know her name!?"
He just looked at me, expression unreadable. "Not important."
Bullshit it wasn't.
"But now I understand what I need to teach you. I'll explain more later. For now, focus on finding your ki." He stepped back like that was the end of the conversation.
Before I closed my eyes, I saw him still looking at Shinjūka. Focused. Serious.
Sorry about keeping you in there, Shinjūka. This old man's insane.
I know. The scent of those panties is still on his hand. If he hadn't complimented me so honestly, I would've burned him. I understand you concern about this man, though I still want to be by your side.
I totally agree. Not having you next to me feels like I'm naked. I woul—
SMACK
"Stop getting distracted!" the old man snapped, wacking me again. "You can talk to her later!"
"How the hell do you know what I'm doing!?" I ducked the next swing. "And stop hitting me!"
WACK
"Only when you start doing what you're supposed to do!"
"Fine! Just—give me a minute to talk to her first!" He huffed and stepped back, giving me room.
I shut my eyes, doing my best to ignore the throbbing on my scalp.
Okay, Shinjūka. Can you help me find my ki? I'm used to circulating reiryoku. I don't even know where to start.
The only thing I can do is lock your reiryoku away. Finding your ki will be up to you. Apologies to your nose in advance.
I didn't even have time to ask what she meant before something inside me snapped. It felt like my entire spirit was suddenly wrapped in duct tape and yanked tight. My whole body went cold—and then the smell hit.
"OH MY GOD—old man! Stand over there! I cannot concentrate with you reeking like that!"
He laughed like I'd just told the best joke in the world… but thankfully, he moved.
A system notification flickered into view:
{Reiryoku Core Sealed. All reiryoku-based skills temporarily disabled. Magic System offline.}
Well. That should help narrow it down.
I tried to circulate something. Anything. But where reiryoku usually flowed like breath, now there was just... nothing. A hollow stillness. It made me flinch, just for a moment. The void reminded me too much of where I'd been after I died.
I forced the thought away. Breathed in slowly. Then tried again—this time, searching for the smallest flicker of something else. I felt brief sparks of something.
"There!" Miyamoto's voice cracked with excitement. "You felt it, didn't you? That little spark?"
I had felt something—a flicker of energy that was distinctly different from my reiryoku. Where my spiritual energy felt controlled and directed, this had been wild, instinctive. Alive in a way that my other power wasn't.
"I think so," I admitted, opening my eyes to meet his increasingly manic gaze.
"Think?" He raised the shinai again threateningly. "We don't think here, boy. We know or we don't know. Which is it?"
"I felt something," I said more confidently. "Something different."
"Excellent!" He lowered the weapon and clapped his hands together with disturbing enthusiasm. "Most people take weeks to even get that much. You might not be completely hopeless after all."
I couldn't help but feel a small surge of pride at the backhanded compliment. Coming from someone of Miyamoto's caliber, even qualified praise was significant.
"So what now?" I asked, settling back into the meditative position.
"Now we do it again. And again. And again until you can find that spark without me beating it out of you." His grin turned positively feral. "Though I might keep beating you anyway. It's fun."
I spent the next two hours getting intermittently struck by his shinai while attempting to locate that elusive energy. Each blow came from a different angle, targeting different pressure points and nerve clusters with surgical precision. The old man's knowledge of human anatomy was becoming increasingly apparent with each precisely placed strike.
By the end of the session, I was bruised, exhausted, and somehow more aware of my own body than I'd ever been. The constant pain had forced me to develop an acute sensitivity to every nerve ending, every muscle fiber. I was still so grateful for my pain nullification skill.
Somewhere in that heightened awareness, I'd managed to touch that strange energy source several more times—never for long, but enough to confirm its existence.
"Not terrible," Miyamoto declared as I finally collapsed onto the stone floor, sweat dripping from every pore. "You've got the basic sensitivity now. Tomorrow we'll work on actually channeling it instead of just poking at it like a dead fish."
I groaned, rolling onto my back to stare up at the cave ceiling. "How long did it take you to master ki?"
"Master?" The old man cackled, settling cross-legged beside me with those damned panties still clutched in his hand. "Boy, I've been at this for over four hundred years and I wouldn't say I've mastered anything. Ki isn't something you conquer—it's something you dance with. Some days the dance goes smoothly, other days you step on each other's toes."
Four hundred years. I'd suspected he was older than he appeared, but hearing it confirmed was still jarring. How many lifetimes of experience was I trying to learn from?
"The difference between a novice and an expert," he continued, "isn't that the expert has mastered ki. It's that they've learned to listen to what their body is trying to tell them instead of forcing it to obey their will, but can exert the will of their body."
I pushed myself up to a sitting position, wincing as various bruises made themselves known. "And how long before I can start learning actual sword techniques?"
"Patience, welp." Miyamoto waved his free hand dismissively. "You can't build a house without a foundation. Right now, your foundation is made of wet paper and good intentions. We need to pour some concrete before we start hanging pictures on the walls."
The analogy was surprisingly coherent coming from him, though I supposed even broken clocks were right twice a day.
"One more thing, welp. That girlfriend of yours... the half-fallen angel. She's important to you, isn't she?"
I froze, my hand on the doorframe. "How do you—"
"Know about her?" Miyamoto finished my question with a cackle. "I know many things, boy. More than you might imagine. But that wasn't what I asked."
I turned back to face him, studying his weathered face for any sign of deception or malice. There was none—just that same inscrutable expression that made it impossible to tell if he was completely insane or terrifyingly sane.
"Yes," I finally admitted. "She's important to me."
He nodded, as if confirming something to himself. "Good. Love is an excellent motivator for growth. Remember her face when you're struggling tomorrow."
With that cryptic advice, he shooed me away again, turning his attention to those disgusting panties he refused to relinquish.
I made my way to the kitchen, my mind racing. How did he know about Akeno? About Shinjūka? Just who was this eccentric old man really?
As I prepared a simple dinner of rice, miso soup, and grilled fish with the groceries I'd bought earlier, I couldn't help but feel a strange mix of unease and excitement. Despite his outlandish behavior, there was no denying Miyamoto's knowledge and skill. If I could learn even a fraction of what he knew, this uncomfortable experience would be worth it.
After dinner, I retreated to my spartan room, settling onto the floor futon with a weary sigh. Every muscle in my body ached from the day's training, and I knew tomorrow would only bring more pain. But beneath the discomfort, there was a spark of something else—a sense that I was on the verge of discovering something important.
I closed my eyes, trying to recapture that fleeting sensation I'd felt during meditation—that wild, untamed energy so different from my reiatsu. Just as I was beginning to drift toward it, a familiar presence brushed against my consciousness.
"Shinjūka," I acknowledged silently.
"You're learning much already," her voice echoed in my mind, warm and approving. "This old one knows more than he pretends."
"That much is obvious," I replied, my mental voice tinged with dry humor. "The question is whether his methods are as effective as his knowledge."
I felt her amusement ripple through our connection. "Pain is an excellent teacher, when applied correctly. And he does seem to enjoy applying it."
"You're not helping," I grumbled, shifting to ease the pressure on a particularly tender bruise.
"On the contrary," Shinjūka's voice grew more serious. "I am helping by not helping. This is something you must learn through your physical body, not through me. Ki is not spiritual power—it's life energy expressed through flesh and blood."
I understood what she meant, but it didn't make the process any less frustrating. "So you're saying I need to suffer through Miyamoto's training methods without relying on our connection?"
"Not without it entirely," she clarified, her mental voice taking on that patient tone she used when explaining complex concepts. "But ki must be discovered through your human body first. Once you understand it in that context, we can explore how it harmonizes with our spiritual bond."
I sighed, settling deeper into the uncomfortable futon. "This is going to be a long six weeks, isn't it?"
"The most worthwhile things usually are," she replied, and I could feel her presence beginning to fade as sleep tugged at my consciousness. "Rest well, my dear wielder. Tomorrow will bring new challenges."
As her voice faded, I found my thoughts drifting to Kuroka. I wondered what she was doing back home, whether she was adjusting to being in her human form more often. The memory of her warmth pressed against me the night before sent a pleasant tingle through my exhausted body, despite the aches and pains.
Then my thoughts shifted to Akeno, somewhere in the Underworld with the rest of the ORC. I missed her laugh, the way her violet eyes sparkled when she was plotting something mischievous. The promise I'd made to myself—to become stronger so I could stand beside her and Rias as an equal—felt more urgent now.
Sleep claimed me gradually, my last conscious thought being a determination to endure whatever insanity Miyamoto had planned for tomorrow. If pain was truly the path to understanding ki, then I would embrace it.
I just hoped I'd still be in one piece by the time summer break ended.
XXX
The next day
After our early breakfast and physical conditioning, the crazy old man led me to an area of the training ground that was sparse with boulders and rocks.
"The sword style I will teach you is called Shinken no Tenketsu."
"True Sword of the Celestial Pulse?" I translated, frowning slightly at the poetic name. I was I plagued in understanding esoteric poetry to get stronger?
Miyamoto nodded, his expression unusually solemn. "Most sword styles focus on cutting the body—severing flesh, bone, sinew. But Shinken no Tenketsu is different." He paused, his gaze distant, as if seeing something beyond the stone walls of the cave. "It teaches one to sever the path before it becomes a step. To read not the motion, but the hesitation before it. To strike not the body, but the choice."
I stared at him, trying to make sense of his cryptic explanation. "That sounds... abstract."
"Of course it does!" he cackled, the momentary solemnity vanishing. "If I explained it clearly, any idiot could learn it!" Severing the path before it becomes a step? Striking the choice rather than the body? It sounded like philosophical nonsense rather than practical sword technique.
"First form!" he barked, dropping into a stance I didn't recognize. "Mirror me!" Where did that wooden sword come from?
I positioned myself opposite him, attempting to copy his stance. My feet were slightly wider than shoulder-width apart, my right foot forward, my left back and angled outward. The sword was held at a diagonal across my body, point aimed at an imaginary opponent's throat.
"Wrong!" Miyamoto shouted, moving so quickly I barely saw him before his foot swept mine out from under me. I hit the ground hard, the impact sending a jolt through my already sore body. It went on like this until he was satisfied with my performance of all the forms. I was surprised I hadn't gained a skill out of it yet.
"Now then. You'll spar with me. Keep using Shinjūka." I was about to protest, but then saw a faint glow emanate from his wooden sword.
So that's what ki looks like…
"Are you going to stand there gawking all day, or are we going to fight?" Miyamoto taunted, his stance shifting into something predatory.
Drawing a deep breath, I unsheathed Shinjūka fully. The familiar weight in my hand was comforting after a day of being beaten with a shinai. "I'm ready."
His laugh was sharp and mocking. "No, you're not."
He moved—and suddenly I was flying backward, a searing pain across my chest where he'd struck me. I hadn't even seen him approach. One moment he was ten feet away, the next his wooden sword had connected with enough force to send me skidding across the stone floor.
"Too slow!" he cackled, already closing the distance again.
I scrambled to my feet, barely getting Shinjūka up in time to block his next strike. The impact jarred my arms all the way to my shoulders. Even with my enhanced strength, it felt like trying to stop a freight train with a baseball bat.
"Pathetic," he spat, his wooden sword a blur as he launched into a series of attacks that left me desperately backpedaling. "Your instincts are decent, but your technique is garbage. You're all reaction, no intention!"
I tried to counter, looking for an opening in his relentless assault, but each time I thought I saw one, it vanished before I could exploit it. It was like fighting smoke—every time I thought I had him, he wasn't where I expected.
"Stop trying to predict where I'll be," he barked, somehow reading my thoughts. "Feel where I'm going to be!"
The distinction made no sense to me, and my confusion cost me as his blade slipped past my guard and cracked against my ribs. Pain blossomed along my side, and I staggered back, gasping.
"Your eyes are too slow," Miyamoto continued, circling me like a shark. "By the time you see my movement, I've already committed to it. You're always one step behind."
I steadied myself, trying to focus through the pain. "Then how am I supposed to—"
His attack cut off my question, forcing me into another desperate defense. This time I managed to deflect rather than block, redirecting the force of his blow rather than absorbing it. It was a small victory, but it earned me a fraction of a second to breathe.
"Better," he acknowledged, though his eyes showed no approval. "But still reactive. You're letting me dictate the flow."
I tried to seize the initiative, launching into a combination of strikes I'd practiced countless times throughout the day. My blade whistled through the air—and met nothing but empty space. Miyamoto had simply not been there when my attack landed, as if he'd known exactly where I would strike.
"You're still thinking," he said, his voice oddly calm despite the violence of our exchange. "Your mind is calculating angles, predicting trajectories, analyzing possibilities. That's not wrong for most fighting, but it won't work here."
I pressed my attack, refusing to let him control the pace entirely. My blade carved through the air in a series of precise cuts, each one targeting what should have been an opening. But he flowed around them like water, never quite where my sword expected to find him.
"Ki and this style ain't about thinking," he continued, his wooden blade deflecting my strikes with minimal effort. "It's about knowing. Your body already understands what your mind is too slow to process."
His next attack came from an impossible angle—somehow his wooden sword curved around my guard as if it had bent in mid-swing. The blow caught me across the shoulder, spinning me sideways.
"Feel the rhythm," Miyamoto instructed, pressing his advantage. "Every fighter has one. Every technique creates one. But rhythm isn't just what is—it's what wants to be."
I stumbled, my footwork sloppy as I tried to process his words while defending myself. What wants to be? What the hell did that mean?
"Stop thinking!" he roared, and his wooden blade accelerated beyond anything I could track. I felt three impacts across my torso in rapid succession, each one sending shockwaves through my body. "Your mind is the enemy here!"
I hit the ground hard, Shinjūka skittering away across the stone floor. Pain radiated from a dozen different points of impact, and I could taste blood where I'd bitten my tongue.
"Pathetic," Miyamoto spat, standing over me with disappointment written across his weathered features. "You're so busy trying to be clever that you've forgotten how to be alive."
I pushed myself up on my elbows, glaring at him through the haze of pain. "Then teach me properly instead of speaking in riddles!"
His laugh was harsh and mocking. "Teach you? Boy, I can't teach you to breathe. I can't teach you to feel hungry or tired or horny. Those things just are. Ki is the same—it's not a technique to learn, it's a truth to accept."
I struggled to my feet, retrieving Shinjūka from where she'd fallen. My grip felt weak, my arms trembling with exhaustion. Then I heard that notification sound. I glanced at it.
{New Skill Unlocked! Shinken no Tenketsu – True Sword of the Celestial Pulse (Rank 1): Shinken = real sword / earnest blade; Tenketsu = pressure point, but also means celestial node or vital point in some esoteric traditions
This is a sword art that seeks not merely to strike but to resonate—targeting the spiritual "fault lines" in one's opponent. It teaches the user to perceive the flow of spiritual energy, pressure, and emotion—then disrupt it with precise, surgically placed strikes.
It is not about brute force, but cutting the moment between moments.
Philosophy:
"To sever the path before it becomes a step. To read not the motion, but the hesitation before it. To strike not the body, but the choice."}
It clicked.
"Again," I said, raising my blade.
"Again?" Miyamoto tilted his head, studying me with those sharp, calculating eyes. "You can barely stand."
"Again," I repeated, settling into the stance he'd drilled into me earlier.
For a moment, something flickered across his expression—approval, perhaps, or recognition. Then his manic grin returned.
"Very well, welp."
Perspective Shift: Miyamoto
Miyamoto watched the young man struggle to his feet, a flicker of interest cutting through his usual madness. So the boy had gained the skill after all. Most wouldn't have grasped even the fundamentals in such a short time.
"Again," the boy insisted, raising his sword with shaking arms.
Interesting. Four centuries had passed since Miyamoto began learning the ways of the sword. Two and half centuries of wandering, of duels that ended too quickly, of opponents who fell before they'd even drawn their blades. The ennui of perfection had nearly driven him to true madness, not just the calculated eccentricity he wore like a mask.
And now, this strange child with a living blade stood before him, demanding more punishment.
"Very well, welp," Miyamoto agreed, sliding into position.
He'd been skeptical when that pompous fool Kurogane had sent word about a promising student. The same Kurogane who'd begged to learn from him 50 years ago, whose potential had been mediocre at best. Miyamoto had rejected him then—the boy's spirit had been too rigid, too formal, too obsessed with the appearance of mastery rather than its essence.
"I've found someone worthy of your teachings," Kurogane's message had said. "A boy with old eyes and strange power."
Miyamoto had nearly ignored it. What did Yamamoto know of worth? But curiosity had won out, and now...
He lunged at Toshio, wooden sword whistling through the air—only to meet unexpected resistance. The boy's stance had shifted subtly, his weight distribution changing in a way that spoke of understanding rather than mimicry.
Miyamoto's eyes narrowed. Something had changed in the last few seconds. The boy was no longer just reacting—he was anticipating. Not with his mind, but with his body.
Their blades met again, and this time, Toshio didn't just block—he redirected, his movements flowing with a grace that hadn't been there moments before. It was as if he'd been practicing the style for months, not mere hours.
"You've been holding out on me," Miyamoto accused, increasing the speed of his attacks. The boy shouldn't have been able to keep up, and yet...
Toshio slipped past his guard, nearly landing a counterattack that would have connected if Miyamoto hadn't twisted away at the last instant. The old swordsman felt a thrill run through him—when was the last time anyone had come so close to learning this style?
"No," Toshio replied, his voice steady despite his labored breathing. "I just started listening."
Miyamoto grinned. The boy had indeed begun to understand. Not the technical aspects—those would come with time and practice—but the fundamental principle: the body knows what the mind does not.
He increased the pressure, his wooden sword becoming a blur as he launched a series of attacks from angles that defied conventional geometry. He didn't have to worry about Toshio not being able to keep up. Holding back so much was starting to become a pain anyway.
I picked the right time to accept a student, the old man thought with glee. He increased the pace further, causing the kid's eyes to widen. Miyamoto got an attack through, smacking the brat in the head, causing him to fly through the air and land hard on the ground.
"Ha! Good thing I deactivated my ki before I hit you! Otherwise you'd be one head shorter of a cactus!"