Chapter Forty-Eight: A Draw

This duel was different from the last time. Not only were the students gathered to watch, but the confrontation was real—swords clashing with genuine intent.

Inside the dojo, the students whispered among themselves. They formed a ring around the center, keeping their voices low as they observed the two men, each wielding a sword.

"It seems Aze has a new technique up his sleeve," murmured Tetsuo Miyamoto, narrowing his eyes as he glanced from the sword at Ryusei Koshiro’s waist to the one in his right hand.

"Is that guy going to use dual blades too?" asked a young man with a wild, spiky hairstyle.

"It doesn’t look like it..."

"But he’s got two swords," another replied, sounding puzzled.

Most were baffled by the sight.

This time, Ryusei Koshiro had chosen to wield two swords: one sheathed at his left hip, the other gripped in his right hand. The purpose was clear—the sheathed sword on his left was reserved for drawing technique, a sudden, thunderous strike when the moment demanded it.

"Heh, I’ll let Mr. Miyamoto witness my new move in a moment," Ryusei said with a bright grin, though a sharp edge to his aura made it clear he was not to be taken lightly.

"Mr. Miyamoto, I’m coming!" With that, Ryusei lunged, thrusting his sword straight at Tetsuo Miyamoto’s face. Miyamoto, however, deflected the attack with effortless grace.

The clash of steel rang out again and again, each metallic note pounding like a great hammer upon the hearts of every student present.

"Amazing!" gasped a female student, her eyes shining with adoration as she fixed her gaze on Ryusei.

"No wonder...he’s my father’s friend," Reiko Miyamoto whispered, stunned, just as she had been when she’d first seen Ryusei and her father spar.

The duel between Ryusei and Miyamoto quickly reached a fever pitch. Miyamoto’s twin swords pressed relentlessly forward, forcing Ryusei backward. Compared to before, Ryusei managed to endure longer beneath Miyamoto’s assault, but defeat seemed inevitable. Yet, the sword at Ryusei’s left hip had not left its sheath.

"Aren’t you going to use the sword at your waist?" Miyamoto’s blades struck like twin serpents, darting toward Ryusei’s armpit.

Ryusei twisted aside, his sword flicking upward at an odd angle to knock Miyamoto’s blade aside. But Miyamoto, with a deft twist of his wrist, sent Ryusei’s own sword flying high into the air, where it began its rapid descent. In that instant, both men lost their swords.

Now Ryusei was unarmed—save for the sword still sheathed at his waist.

Miyamoto recognized the opening. The remaining sword in his hand sliced downward toward the crown of Ryusei’s head.

The moment Ryusei lost his sword, his hand reflexively gripped the hilt of the sheathed blade at his waist.

As Miyamoto’s sword sped toward him, Ryusei drew his blade in a flash—lightning-quick, thunderous in its ferocity.

At the very instant Miyamoto’s sword was about to strike, Ryusei’s blade was already at Miyamoto’s throat.

It all happened in a blink—faster than words could tell.

At the same time, the sword knocked into the air clattered to the ground, ringing out in the silent dojo.

Silence. Absolute, breathless silence.

Every student stared, dumbfounded. Some rubbed their eyes, unwilling to believe what had just transpired. Others even slapped themselves to make sure they weren’t dreaming.

The outcome was, in every sense, a draw.

Anyone capable of fighting Tetsuo Miyamoto to a draw had the skill to open their own kendo school.

The two men held their poised, lethal stances for nearly a minute before, as if by mutual understanding, they withdrew their swords from each other’s vulnerable points.

"You’re a remarkable young man," Tetsuo Miyamoto said quietly after a long silence. "Perhaps next time we meet, I’ll be the one to suffer defeat at your hands."

"You flatter me, Mr. Miyamoto. I was simply lucky to hold you to a draw," Ryusei replied, embarrassed, scratching his head before sheathing his sword. The clear sound of steel sliding into its scabbard rang through the hushed dojo.

The room remained silent for a long while until, at last, someone spoke.

"My god, I’ve just witnessed the rise of a future Sword Saint!" an unkempt man wearing glasses shouted excitedly. "Someday you’ll surpass Master Miyamoto!"

This bespectacled young man, about twenty, seemed entirely unconcerned with his master’s dignity, continuing to shout in excitement.

"Dairin!" Reiko Miyamoto, finally coming to her senses, frowned and glared at him.

"It’s fine," Tetsuo Miyamoto said with a gentle smile on his pale, gaunt face. "Dairin simply loves kendo too much. It’s natural to admire the strong."

Dairin was, in fact, one of Miyamoto’s most promising students, exceptionally gifted at dual-blade technique—on par with his own daughter.

"Mr. Miyamoto, I hope I may challenge you again in the future," Ryusei said, bowing respectfully.

"Aze, why not come to my house for tea?" Miyamoto’s tone brooked no refusal.

"Ah, well...alright," Ryusei replied, sensing Miyamoto’s firm intent. In truth, he’d hoped to return home and keep his grandmother company. Once he left this time and space, her life would return to its lonely normal—devoid of familial warmth.

Raider had already left her, and, truthfully, Ryusei was reluctant to go as well. But he had reasons that left him no choice.

And so, under the awestruck, envious, and admiring gazes of the students, Ryusei left the dojo with Tetsuo Miyamoto and followed him home.

...

Miyamoto’s house was enormous, complete with an attic and decorated in a retro style. The lighting was poor, giving the place a slightly dim atmosphere.

The two men knelt in the traditional Japanese fashion before a low table set with a tea service. Tetsuo Miyamoto prepared the tea with practiced ease.

...

"Aze, that final, breathtaking strike of yours today—was it a drawing technique?" Miyamoto asked casually, taking a sip of hot tea.

Ryusei, cup in hand, was taken aback.

"Mr. Miyamoto...how did you—how could you possibly know?" Ryusei’s eyes widened in shock.

The drawing technique had been taught to him by Kojuro Inada, the legendary swordsman of the Edo period. Though he knew Inada hadn’t invented the technique himself, he couldn’t fathom how Miyamoto could be aware of its existence. Could it be that the technique had survived elsewhere?

"Heh, would you like to know?" Miyamoto looked at Ryusei with a half-smile.

"Yes!" Ryusei nodded instinctively, like a knowledge-hungry schoolboy before a learned teacher.

"Actually..." For the first time, hesitation flickered across Miyamoto’s sickly white face. After a pause, he continued, "Actually, I’m not from Earth."

...