Ruho made his way back down the four flights of stairs, his legs already protesting the amount of climbing he'd done today. His brief moment of triumph over killing the Gigantosuchus had evaporated, replaced by the grim reality that he now had to butcher a hundred-foot corpse before an army of scavengers showed up to do it for him.
He reached the kitchen and went straight for the knife block on the counter. It was well-stocked—Vexor had apparently gone all-in on the medieval castle aesthetic, because instead of modern kitchen knives, these were all hand-forged steel with wooden handles. He grabbed the biggest one, a cleaver-looking thing with a blade maybe eight inches long.
"Perfect," Ruho muttered, testing the weight. "This should work."
Azirel's laughter exploded in his head so suddenly that Ruho nearly dropped the knife.
"WHAT?!" Ruho shouted. "What's so funny?!"
"You—" Azirel could barely get the words out between fits of laughter. "You think you're going to butcher a Gigantosuchus with a KITCHEN KNIFE?!"
"It's a big kitchen knife!" Ruho protested, holding it up defensively.
"The hide is nearly a foot thick!" Azirel wheezed. "That thing is covered in armored scales that evolved to resist attacks from other apex predators! You'd have better luck trying to cut through it with a spoon!"
"Then what am I supposed to use?!" Ruho demanded.
Vexor's voice cut in, calm and practical. "There's an armory on the ground floor. Second door on the right from the entrance hall. I stocked it with various weapons appropriate for a nobleman's residence. You'll want one of the short swords—they're designed for close-quarters combat and have enough weight behind them to pierce tough materials."
Ruho looked down at his kitchen knife, then sighed and put it back in the block. "Fine. Armory. Great. Because of course this castle has an armory."
He left the kitchen and found the entrance hall, then the second door on the right. It opened into a room that made his eyes widen despite his frustration.
The armory was maybe twenty feet square, with stone walls lined with weapon racks and armor stands. Swords of various lengths hung on the walls—longswords, broadswords, rapiers, sabers. There were shields in different sizes and styles. Several sets of chain mail hung on stands, along with pieces of plate armor. Spears and polearms stood in a corner rack. And in the center of the room, on a dedicated display, were several short swords.
Ruho approached the short swords slowly. He'd never held a real sword before. Never even seen one up close except in museums behind glass. These were different, practical, functional, with leather-wrapped handles worn smooth from use. Or at least, made to look like they'd been used. He wasn't sure how Vexor had manufactured these or if they'd just been magically conjured into existence.
He picked one up. It was heavier than he expected, maybe three pounds, with a blade roughly two feet long. The balance felt strange in his hand—top-heavy in a way that kitchen knives never were.
And then something in his brain just... clicked.
Every anime he'd ever watched—and he'd watched a lot, during those long nights in his apartment when sleep wouldn't come and masturbation had lost its appeal. Every sword-fighting scene he'd absorbed through countless hours of mindless entertainment suddenly seemed relevant.
Ruho held the sword out in front of him, one hand on the grip, and took what he thought might be a proper stance. His feet shoulder-width apart. Knees slightly bent. The sword extended forward like he was about to strike.
"Not bad form, actually," Vexor commented, sounding impressed.
Encouraged, Ruho shifted to a different pose—sword held back behind his shoulder, ready for an overhead strike. Then another pose—sword at his hip, ready to draw and cut in one motion even though the sword was already drawn.
He was getting into it now. He swung the sword through the air, the blade making a satisfying whoosh sound. He spun, executing what he thought might be a proper sword technique, the blade cutting through empty air in an arc.
Then he grabbed a second short sword from the rack.
Two swords. One in each hand. Dual-wielding. He held them crossed in front of his chest, then swept them out to the sides in what definitely looked cool even if it was tactically meaningless.
"Oh no," Azirel said, his voice filled with dawning horror. "Ruho. Ruho, what are you doing."
But Ruho was beyond caring about dignity. He placed one of the swords between his teeth, biting down on the leather handle wrap, and held the other two swords out to his sides.
"THREE SWORDS STYLE!" he shouted around the sword in his mouth, his words muffled but unmistakable. "ONIGIRI!"
He swung all three swords simultaneously in completely uncoordinated arcs, nearly hitting himself in the face with one of them, looking absolutely ridiculous.
Azirel's laughter returned, even louder than before. "OH MY GOD! You—you actually did the Zoro thing! You put a sword in your mouth! I can't—I can't breathe! This is the best thing I've ever seen!"
"Shut up!" Ruho mumbled around the sword, finally pulling it out of his mouth. His jaw hurt. His pride hurt more. "I was just—it was a joke! I was joking!"
"You weren't joking!" Azirel cackled. "You absolutely weren't joking! You were doing anime poses in an armory by yourself! This is peak content! Everyone needs to see this!"
"Don't you DARE broadcast that to the other gods!" Ruho threatened, his face burning.
"Too late!" another voice chimed in Tyrix. "I've been recording! This is going in the highlight reel!"
Ruho wanted to die. Again. For the fourth time.
"You know," Azirel said, his laughter finally subsiding into occasional chuckles, "if you're that interested in swordsmanship, I could arrange a meeting. I happen to personally know someone who could teach you proper technique."
"I don't need sword lessons," Ruho muttered, putting two of the swords back on the rack and keeping just one. "I just need to cut up a dead crocodile."
"No, but seriously," Azirel continued, his tone shifting to something more genuine. "This person is incredible. Legendary, actually. The greatest swordsman who ever lived. Well, depending on who you ask."
Ruho paused, his hand on the sword's grip. "The greatest swordsman ever? Like, in all of history?"
"Yep," Azirel confirmed. "I processed his soul personally. Got to know him pretty well. Nice guy. Very dedicated to his craft. A bit obsessive, honestly, but in a good way."
Despite himself, Ruho felt a flicker of interest. If he was going to be stuck in this world, if he was going to keep running into giant monsters and death-by-wildlife scenarios, maybe knowing how to actually use a sword wouldn't be the worst idea.
"Who is it?" Ruho asked. "Some famous samurai? Miyamoto Musashi?"
"Oh, Musashi," Azirel said, and there was something in his tone—a mixture of amusement and sadness. "No, not Musashi. Actually, the person I'm thinking of is the guy Musashi is famous for defeating. The greatest loser of all time, depending on your perspective."
Ruho frowned. "Why would I want to meet the greatest loser?"
"Because," Azirel said slowly, his voice taking on a reverent quality, "losing to Miyamoto Musashi the greatest swordsman in Japanese history doesn't make you a loser. It makes you the second-greatest swordsman in Japanese history. And that's still pretty damn impressive."
"Okay," Ruho said. "So who is it?"
"The man who spent his entire life perfecting a single sword technique," Azirel explained. "The man who developed a style so unique that it's still studied centuries later. The man who faced Musashi in one of the most famous duels in history and lost, yes, but who fought so brilliantly that the victory is still debated to this day. The man whose name became synonymous with dedication, skill, and the pursuit of perfection."
Azirel paused for dramatic effect.
"His name was Sasaki Kojirō."