The arena thundered.
Tens of thousands of voices merged into a single roar as Kang Jae-Hyun stepped into the center circle, bokken raised in salute.
The national swordsmanship championship final, broadcast live across the country, had reached its climax. His opponent, three-time runner-up Lee Sang-Jin, glared across the ten-meter line, sweat already beading on his brow despite the air-conditioned hall.
Jae-Hyun's face was calm. Almost bored.
The referee's flag dropped.
Lee lunged first, a textbook men strike aimed straight at the head. Fast. Precise. The kind of attack that had ended every previous match in under thirty seconds.
Jae-Hyun moved half a step sideways. The bokken whistled past his mask. In the same breath, his own blade flicked upward, not a block, but a deflection that guided Lee's momentum forward.
Jae-Hyun's foot slid behind his opponent's, and with a subtle twist of the wrist, he sent the veteran sprawling.
One point. Clean.
The crowd exploded.
Lee rose quickly, pride burning in his eyes. He attacked again, faster this time, chaining kote to do to tsuki in a flurry most pros couldn't follow.
[Kote: Wrist strike, Tsuki: Thrust to the throat]
Jae-Hyun answered each strike with minimal motion: parry, step, counter. His footwork was poetry: never wasted energy, never out of position.
Second point: a perfect kote strike as Lee overextended.
Third point: Jae-Hyun baited a desperate head strike, slipped inside, and tapped the throat with the tip of his bokken. Ippon.
[ Ippon: A full point in kendo (or other Japanese sword arts).]
The buzzer sounded. Match over.
Jae-Hyun removed his face guard and bowed deeply to his opponent. Lee returned the bow, frustration clear but respect deeper.
The announcer's voice boomed over the speakers.
"For the fourth consecutive year, your undisputed national champion: Kang Jae-Hyun!"
Applause crashed like waves. Cameras flashed. Young fans in the front rows held signs: "Marry me, Jae-Hyun-oppa!" and "Sword God!"
He smiled politely, waved once, and left the stage. No theatrics. No victory pose. Just the quiet satisfaction of a job done right.
Backstage, reporters swarmed.
"Jae-Hyun-ssi! Another flawless performance! Any thoughts on turning pro overseas?"
"Will we see you at the World Invitational next year?"
He answered each question with the same measured tone. Then came the one he always dreaded.
"Apex Dynamics has publicly extended a Player contract offer again this season. Rumors say the Chairman himself is involved. Any comment?"
Jae-Hyun's smile didn't waver.
"I'm honored by the interest," he said, "but my sword is for the dojo, not the dungeon. Thank you."
He slipped away before they could press further.
The drive home was quiet. Seoul's skyline glittered under the late afternoon sun, tall spires of glass and steel, occasional mana barriers shimmering faintly around high-risk districts.
On the car radio, a news anchor spoke in calm tones.
"…E-rank Gate cleared successfully in Incheon this morning. No civilian casualties. In related news, Apex Dynamics stock rose three percent following reports of a new high-compatibility Player candidate…"
Jae-Hyun changed the station to music.
His phone buzzed. A message from his mother.
"Don't forget, tomorrow is our anniversary! Come pick us up at the lab around six? We made reservations at that Italian place you like. Love you, champion ♥"
He smiled and typed back: "Wouldn't miss it. Congrats in advance."
The next segment of his day belonged to the blade.
The private dojo he rented was small, traditional, and empty. Tatami mats, wooden floors, a single wall of mirrors.
Jae-Hyun changed into plain practice clothes and picked up a real iaito, not sharp, but weighted perfectly.
He began with basics. Draws. Cuts. Footwork drills.
Then he flowed into freestyle kata, forms he had created himself over years of obsession.
His style was extreme in its efficiency: no flourish, no wasted motion, every strike designed to end a fight in one exchange. Observers often called it cold. He called it honest.
Sweat soaked his shirt. Breath steady. Mind empty.
Between sets, memories surfaced unbidden.
His father's voice over dinner two years ago: "Son, your talent is wasted on tournaments. With the serum, you could protect people. Really protect them."
His mother adding softly: "Chairman Park approved your candidacy personally. It would be safe, safer than most, with your skill."
He had shaken his head then, same as always.
"I'm happy," he'd said. "I wake up every day looking forward to training. To competing. Why trade that for a life where every day could be my last?"
They hadn't pushed. They never did. But he saw the worry in their eyes, the kind that came from working at Apex Dynamics, from knowing exactly how fragile normal humans were when a Gate opened nearby.
Jae-Hyun finished his final cut, sheathed the iaito, and bowed to the empty room.
He was twenty-three years old, at the absolute peak of his craft, and completely content.
The world of Hunters and Players could keep its mana and monsters.
He had his sword, his dojo, and a quiet life he had built with his own hands.
Tomorrow he would celebrate his parents' anniversary, eat good pasta, and go home to prepare for next season.
Nothing needed to change.