The man in the black and blue yukata stood without a word, no ceremony or warning. It was just a subtle shift in his presence, as soft as a breath, but Cane felt the air change, growing heavy with unspoken intent.
Cane rose to his feet slowly, his movements controlled, but his heartbeat quickened, a frantic drum against his ribs.
He took six steps back across the tatami, each one deliberate, measured. The clack of his heels echoed faintly.
Across from him, the swordsman mirrored his posture. Both men now stood in silence, hands resting lightly on the hilts of their blades.
There was no wind, no sound of breath. Only the slow burn of anticipation stretched between them for a full minute. Neither moved, until Cane finally broke the stillness.
His blade flashed out, a swift and direct strike, but the swordsman met it not with a block, but with a strike of his own. The clash of steel rang out like a single, sharp note in the quiet dojo.
A single movement. Lethal, elegant, almost invisible.
If this had been Cane on his first day, that blow would've decapitated him again. But Cane's feet pivoted just in time. He leaned, twisted, parried and countered.
The sound of blades clashing filled the dojo.
He attacked again, and the swordsman met him with a flurry that was faster than anything Cane had trained against. The man's strikes were precise no wasted movement, no hesitation.
Cane ducked, side-stepped, and blocked, sweat already beading on his brow. He struck back with a flurry of cuts—one, two, five, a dozen—the rhythm building until it became a tense dance of pressure and deflection.
Their swords collided in quick bursts, each impact sending vibrations through Cane's arms. Then, without a word, the swordsman shifted.
His posture changed. The next set of movements were elegant, flowing. Wide arcs, sweeping control like a waterfall made of silver. The Cravayne style.
Cane recognized it. "Switching styles now?" he said, grinning. "What's wrong, ghost? Mine too messy for you?"
The ghost didn't reply.
He stepped forward, blade curving like wind, the dojo echoing with controlled slashes meant to disorient, overwhelm. But Cane stood his ground.
His own strikes multiplied.
Every graceful arc from the swordsman was met with raw, relentless flurries from Cane. He didn't block. He overwhelmed. He didn't parry he cut through every motion.
Until, finally, Cravayne's elegance faltered. The swordsman shifted again, but this time his movement ended not in an attack, but in a perfect stillness. Cane didn't need to be told what was coming. He could feel it in the weight of the air as his opponent took a final stance, held a single breath, and in that perfect stillness, Vandraziel.
"One cut is enough," Cane muttered to himself. "Yeah. I remember this one."
He braced for impact. The man moved, a flash of motion faster than light itself, but Cane didn't retreat.
He met the single elegant strike not with a block, but with a rain of slashes. Dozens of cuts exploded from his blade, crashing into the attack with wild momentum. Steel scraped, sparks burst, but he kept going, and going, until his body blurred from the sheer speed of his movements. He no longer counted his swings.
He just cut.
[You look like you're trying to kill a swarm of invisible mosquitoes.]
"I'M KILLING THE GODDAMN AIR ITSELF!" Cane roared back.
Sweat poured down his face. His arms screamed. His back ached.
But he didn't stop.
Every training session. Every breath, all of it had led to this moment.
He'd never realized how exhausting the Yashira style was. No wonder people gave up on it. No wonder it had no successors. This wasn't for beauty. This wasn't for fame.
It was pain, and tenacity, and insanity forged into slash.
And he loved it.
"I'm not done yet!" he shouted, pushing forward.
The swordsman backed a step.
Cane laughed breathlessly. "Is that it? Come on, ghost! I thought you were the founder of this place!"
[Talent: I'm Crazy Active – Minor stat boost applied]
The timing was perfect. Cane's wild grin stretched ear to ear.
His aura pulsed. Now, it was a blur Cane's form moving like lightning, every step followed by a dozen cuts. His eyes wide, focused. His entire body in motion, but controlled.
The swordsman responded with a seamless shift between styles Cravayne to Vandraziel, then a hybrid. Perfect counters to brute force or elegance.
But Cane didn't let up.
He pushed harder. More strikes. More pressure.
"You think those styles are better?" he shouted. "Look at me! This this is what resolve looks like!"
He pressed in, step by step, blades crashing.
"Forget elegance! Forget perfection! I don't need one cut—I'll give you a hundred!" Cane roared, his relentless assault driving the swordsman back.
The man's feet shifted and his defense thinned under the wild momentum.
"You wanted to test me?" Cane barked. "I'm gonna carve your name and send you back to heaven!"
Another strike. Another. He wasn't stopping. He couldn't.
Every cell in his body screamed to stop, but his soul screamed louder. Then, the moment paused, and the swordsman stood completely still. His blade, once lifted, now hovered quietly at his side.
Cane raised his own katana, panting, with blood on his knuckles and arms trembling—but still holding firm. The man didn't strike again. Instead, his head tilted slightly, just enough.
The veil of mist that clouded his features parted briefly just enough to reveal the faintest curl at the corner of his lips.
A smile not mockery.
Pride.
Approval.
The air between them shifted and Cane knew it wasn't over. "Not yet." Cane smiled.
His lips were trembling, his face slick with sweat, every muscle in his body shrieking for rest but he grinned like a lunatic all the same.
The real fight had just begun. Cane, with an expression of exhaustion yet subtle satisfaction, was glad he had finally made his opponent get serious.
[You look like a leaking water tank.]
Cane wiped his forehead, breathing heavily. "This… this is resolve. And I know you agree."
Across from him, the swordsman shifted.
They both adjusted their footing.
They rolled their wrists, the blades spinning in elegant circles like dancers warming up. It wasn't battle yet it was respect. They knew what was coming next.
Both settled into mirrored stances, slightly hunched, their swords sheathed. Then, they lunged. Their swords clashed mid-strike, exploding into a storm of slashes.
Ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred—more—there were simply too many to count.
They became blurs of steel, twin storms on a battlefield of memory. Neither relied on flashy skill names or elementals. This was pure, unadulterated swordsmanship.
Cane bled. So did the master. Tear after tear opened across Cane's skin, shallow at first, but growing deeper—one across his ribs, one at the thigh, and a nick across his cheek. But he didn't stop. He just kept cutting.
[You're not fighting. You're swatting flies with malice.]
"SHUT UP, SYSTEM!" Cane barked, parrying another slash with pure instinct.
The flurry continued, until Cane slipped. It was just a moment, a single breath, but in that instant, the master struck.
Blades tore through his defense, a clean arc severing his left arm from the elbow.
"AARRRGHHHH!!" he screamed. A scream of pure agony tore from Cane's throat as he collapsed, panting, his vision blurred as the dojo seemed to flicker around him.
"…Just a bit more…" he muttered.
He could barely see. His blood smeared the tatami.
The master stood over him, his sword raised. "No—" Cane gasped, his voice a desperate plea. "No. Not… yet." As the blade descended, Cane lunged, throwing his body straight into the path of the strike. But the ghost only used one slash.
Had he used more had he unleashed the flurry Cane had endured and trained so many times before there would've been no chance. Cane would've been carved apart, nothing left but meat. But this time, there was only one.
And that, that gave Cane a sliver of opportunity.
He twisted midair, letting his right arm take the brunt severed instantly.
He ignored the pain. He kicked the master's blade away, snatched it with his teeth.
And while stepping on the ghost's chest, he drove the katana down with every ounce of strength he had left.
No words.
Just raw, reckless fury.
And finally the ghost's form split and faded.
Cane collapsed, coughing, twitching. Blood gushed from both arms. The sword dropped from his mouth with a clatter.
[You—you actually won.]
[You absolute idiot. You suicidal, beautiful idiot.]
Even though Cane had managed to defeat it… the ghost was still moving. The shredded pieces of his body began to knit themselves back together.
Exhausted and powerless, Cane felt that something within his own body had begun to change as well. And Cane's arms flesh and bone regrew.
The pain vanished. He blinked, barely believing it.
A faint mist still curled around the man's form, concealing parts of him—but Cane could see more now. He stood again. Whole. His expression calm, aged.
"You have passed the test," he said softly.
Cane was silent can't believe what just happened.
"You fought… not just with your blade. But with your soul. Even before stepping into my domain, you put others before yourself. That resolve… is what I sought."
Cane blinked confused by the ghost's words.
"That girl," the ghost continued, "the one you saved inside the ruin. When she fell. You did not hesitate. Even in that fleeting moment."
Oh… that moment. "That… was nothing."
"It was everything."
Cane breathed slowly. His fingers curled unsure of how to respond.
[This is a typical phenomenon in some ancient ruins,] the system explained. [Some legendary warriors leave behind trials encoded into their mana memories so strong they gain sentience. Like this one.]
Cane nodded in understanding at the system's explanation.
Then the dojo shook, the walls and floor fell slowly.
The master glanced upward. "It's time. My final traces are unraveling."
Cane then stood up slowly, trying to find a few words to say before parting ways with the person in front of him.
"…H-hey," he said, voice rough. "Ghost—no. Master."
The ghost turned.
"I know what it's like… to be alone. To put your whole life into something—into training, into creation and then be forgotten. Ignored."
The ghost's face didn't move, but his eyes shone faintly.
"I know you trained until your bones broke, bled until the mats were soaked. And no one cared. They chose elegance. They chose the quick path. You were buried in silence."
Cane swallowed. "I thought your technique was a joke. Too much work. Too messy. What's the point of a hundred cuts?"
He looked down. "But now I know. Every cut is an answer. A refusal to break. A scream back at the world that said you didn't matter."
"Thank you. For every page you wrote. For every swing you practiced on your own. You are someone who truly important, and I will remember you."
He looked up again. "Maybe I'm not worthy of the Yashira name. But I'll make sure the world remembers it."
He breathed in. "…Because this is the only thing I can give you. The only way I can repay you for your pain, your time, your devotion."
He clenched his fists.
"This is my resolve."
The mist began to lift fully now. And the ghost Shiyo Yashira smiled.
Not a cold smile. Not a nostalgic one.
But warm.
The warmest expression he had worn in a hundred years.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Grow strong, my one and only student."
The dojo cracked apart.
Light broke in from every direction and Cane's vision faded not with pain.
But softly.
Like drifting into sleep.