Facing the sword Lannor had thrown out with his whole center of gravity folded into the charge, even Ashina Isshin chose the most efficient defense he had, dropping his full weight onto the blade and blocking downward.

It still lifted both his feet more than four inches from the ground.

His straw sandals struck earth again and scraped two harsh lines across the temple floor. Soil piled at the ends of the grooves before he finally stopped.

“Well done, Lannor!”

Ashina Isshin laughed despite himself.

Boldness and care in battle, every combat style had preached that for ages. But to react so cleanly under the pressure of Ashina Isshin’s blade… this boy was interesting.

Lannor’s assault was not finished.

His cat eyes swept over Isshin’s posture in a blink. Mentos tracked the movement of his pupils, marking data point after data point, but the final decision came from Lannor himself.

Keep pressing.

After taking that slash weighted with Lannor’s entire body, Isshin’s Wyrm-Cleaver of Adamantine Steel had been knocked to his right side. His left was open. The opening would last less than a tenth of a second before his stance recovered, but Lannor could seize it.

Steel rang again and again, sharp as hammer blows. Isshin dragged his blade up from the right to guard the left, but the distance his arm and sword had to travel meant he should not have been faster than Lannor. Every clash struck his stance apart just as it was about to settle.

In western swordsmanship, the side with advantage kept pressure on the opponent’s weak side. Pressure was not only meant to force mistakes. It was also protection. An opponent busy answering blows had no room to launch his own.

So the advantage holder’s furious attack was a strategy that looked reckless and brutal, but was, in truth, stable and safe.

Ashina Isshin’s foundation was beyond doubt. His single eye burned brighter with every clash. With his experience, he could read the logic inside what seemed like raw violence, and the freshness of it ran through him like strong liquor.

“So that’s it! This is the essence of Nanban swordplay?”

Even while temporarily suppressed, the gaunt old man laughed with satisfaction.

He had sensed the difference between fighting Lannor and fighting a swordsman of Japan. Leaving aside the boy’s absurd physical gifts, the thinking behind the swordplay was fundamentally different.

“For you, combat is a battle of induction? Ha!”

Isshin’s laughter rolled through the temple.

It was deception fused with logic.

Nanban swordplay differed because it used reason to dissect a duel. When to force an attack, what result that pressure should produce, how to respond if the situation changed in an instant, all of it was weighed in the space between breaths, measured by probability, risk, and gain, then chosen by the swordsman.

That way of thinking did not necessarily make Nanban swordsmen fine generals. But on a battlefield of one man against one man, they were all tacticians.

Isshin still laughed, but his position was worsening.

Lannor made no tactical mistakes. He pressed strength against weakness, forcing Isshin to shift his footing again and again. Each time the old man hauled the blade back to guard his left, the next collision smashed it toward his right.

There was no room to restore his stance.

A tactical advantage meant that, so long as execution held, the advantage would remain in hand.

And Lannor’s execution was terrifyingly precise.

His sword was fast and steady. The assault looked savage, but not once did he overcut and expose his flank.

At the side, Owl watched the young witcher drive the Sword Saint back toward the wall lined with Buddha statues. The old shinobi’s thick brows and beard almost seemed to puff out from shock. He really did look like a startled owl.

Then, just as Lannor’s advancing steps forced the aged Sword Saint to a place where retreat was no longer possible…

The wind changed.

The sealed underground Hidden Temple suddenly stirred with a faint breeze.

The witcher’s eyes narrowed.

“My thanks, Lannor.”

Amid the bright sparks of colliding steel, the curve of the gaunt old man’s mouth widened.

“You have shown me interesting Nanban swordplay. In return, look well upon the eastern sword.”

The words had barely fallen when Lannor’s vertical pupils contracted.

Arondight, which should have pressed forward according to his tactics, snapped back to guard his front.

It was not enough. A razor-coolness slid along the side of his face. Lannor had no time to think. His left hand left the hilt, and his vambrace rose toward the chill.

“Clang!”

“Clang!”

Sparks burst twice.

Isshin, whose stance had been under pressure a moment before, seemed to skip like a missing frame in a picture. He had become the shape of an iai strike.

Not drawing.

After drawing.

Already returning the blade to its scabbard.

Lannor’s eyes widened.

A deep sword mark had appeared across the outside of his left vambrace, the one he had raised beside his face.

Arondight in his right hand had been knocked thirty degrees off line by a force too sudden to follow.

More importantly, even with his dynamic vision, he had not seen Isshin make two cuts.

Are you damned joking?

Is this some kind of cultivation novel?

One stroke had struck two places along two different routes.

The surging force lifted Lannor clean off his feet and carried him backward more than a yard.

He stared at the gaunt old man rising from his crouched iai stance.

“Strange, isn’t it, compared with Nanban swordplay?”

The old man chuckled.

“When I had too much time in Ashina Castle, I taught a few swordsmen. One of them, a fellow called Jinsuke Saze, refined this technique into a specialty. Ashina Cross. Judging by the path of the vacuum cleaves, it is more of a slanting ‘two’ than a cross, but no denying it. It is fast.”

Ashina Isshin slid the Wyrm-Cleaver of Adamantine Steel back into its scabbard at his waist. It seemed he had no intention of continuing.

Lannor tilted his head at the old man, then sheathed the sword of the Lady of the Lake as well.

Isshin had begun to breathe harder. The movement was slight, controlled by some peculiar breathing technique, but the noise in his lungs could not be hidden.

Ashina Isshin was old, after all.

“Fast enough that this Jinsuke Saze could probably kill an armored man just by the speed of his arm. Though I imagine the arm would not survive afterward.”

Lannor nodded in admiration and ground his teeth.

“I think I understand a little now. What Japanese swordsmanship is about.”

Ashina Isshin’s eye lit up.

“Oh? Didn’t expect your insight to be sharp as well. I like you even more, Lannor.”

Lannor had no idea what European swordsmanship in this world looked like, after all, his “Nanban training” credentials were fabricated. Yet after the brief encounter with Ashina Isshin, he began to grasp the trajectory of Eastern swordsmanship in this reality.

In ordinary worlds, practical swordsmanship always leaned on tactics. Human physical limits rarely differed enough to matter. If your mind was sharper, you won the fight.

But in a world where human potential was clearly amplified, the Eastern martial arts naturally evolved into stat monsters. I draw slower than anyone, my cuts are weaker than theirs… I feel so unsafe! At this rate, one wouldn’t dare leave the house, let alone engage in tactical combat training. Forget “strategic” practice, just push your base stats up!

Hence the faster Art of Drawing the Sword, the fiercer downward cuts, the extreme Breathing Techniques… In short: raw Force. Who had time for subtle feints in a sword duel? My strike alone, followed by a vacuum-cleave, could reach three meters—try blocking it! If your reflexes keep up, fine; if not… you die.

“Oh! Concisely summarized, Lannor! So you aren’t entirely ignorant of Ming Martial Arts either. Ha!” Ashina Isshin laughed heartily, clearly pleased by the previous bout.

“So Nanban swordsmanship truly values tactics and situational thinking. Fascinating development… their Masters of the Way can probably predict what an enemy had for breakfast before the fight even begins. Tactics and logic… impressive!”

Lannor pressed his lips together and nodded repeatedly, feelings a mix of admiration and disbelief.

“Yes, indeed, the Grandmasters of the Blade operate that way. Heh… heh heh.” Well, whatever you say—he had never truly met a Nanban swordsman from this world, and probably never would. If he couldn’t verify it, it might as well be true.

Still, a spark of excitement flickered in him. This local swordsmanship… it catered perfectly to a man’s fantasy. Stylish and deadly all at once.

* * *

With the schedule for his instruction settled, the witcher was ushered out of the Hidden Temple. Lannor could tell Isshin had something to say to Owl but didn’t want him to hear. He didn’t care. Owl had commanded Ashina’s Shinobi Hunters for decades; the man’s information and position were beyond imagining. That was someone else’s affair—better not to intervene.

By the time Lannor emerged, night was approaching. At the bridge before the Antechamber, he borrowed a rope and lowered himself into a tributary of the Dragonspring River. He told the locals it was to recover valuables lost in last night’s chaos; with his reputation in Hirata Estate, no one objected.

Easily, he retrieved two massive carp from the tributary, each bearing a Treasure Carp Scale. With the scale he had claimed on the night he first met Wolf, he now had enough to trade with Harunaga for the Godseed pellet and the Floating Passage scroll. Today, he intended to exchange them. Tomorrow, he would plunge into Ashina Style under Ashina Isshin’s guidance, and Lightfoot under Lady Butterfly. With both courses, there would be little time to rest in a day.

Outside Hirata Estate, small stone mounds marked the riverbank—graves for civilians and soldiers massacred by the bandits the night before. The morning rituals were done quickly; the living had little time to wail. By afternoon, the place lay quiet.

Lannor paused briefly, shaking his head. He had done everything he could last night. For the people, armed conflict was as devastating as natural disaster, sometimes worse. Being overly self-critical in such times was pointless. He mourned the dead, but did not let it shadow him. In accordance with local custom, he clapped his hands and bowed before leaving.

He did not take a boat this time. Night was falling, and he feared a misstep might send him under the water. Walking along the riverbank, he felt the familiar mental signal and waded into the shallows at the river’s center. Effortlessly, he exchanged the scales with Harunaga in the jar.

“Next time you get more scales, come find me. I’ll pull plenty more things from the Dragonspring River’s Fountainhead Waters—you’ll like them.”

Lannor nodded. Killing the carp was easy; finding them, less so. Trading scales for strange treasures was both interesting and profitable.

“What exactly are these Fountainhead Waters? I hear a lot about them in Ashina.” Lannor asked as he shook water from his boots. Harunaga must have spent a long time in the Dragonspring; asking him seemed wise.

During Kotaro’s Mibu Balloon blessing, he had mentioned filling it with Fountainhead Waters. In the Ashina Style esoteric text, the flow of the swordsmanship was inspired by the movement of Fountainhead Waters. Clearly, it was significant here.

A muffled, harsh laugh came from the jar.

“Hohoho, Fountainhead Waters? Ordinary people calling the regular river water Fountainhead Waters?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Lannor continued, expression unreadable.

“Hoho, not entirely wrong… Ashina Clan Cohort are generally taller and stronger than outsiders, you know that, right?”

Lannor thought: I wouldn’t know—I was air-dropped in here. But outwardly, he nodded firmly, as if he had indeed traveled from the coast of Japan to this mountain range. Mentos praised his acting skill. Lannor humbly accepted.

Harunaga’s hand outside the jar wavered lightly, inviting the conversation to continue.

“This is the nurture of Fountainhead Waters. Immortality may be elusive, but strength comes easily. Those who absorb it grow taller and stronger. They’re still short-lived, but fierce fighters!”

Lannor realized Fountainhead Waters was essentially a potent nutritional supplement.

Among the Ashina Clan Cohort, the taller ones were often military leaders—not because of noble bloodlines, but because efficient absorption of Fountainhead Waters let them rely on their physiques to become military elites.

Kotaro, at 1.5 meters, was a commoner. Inosuke Nogami, 1.7 meters, a standard samurai. Nogami Gensai, Tenzen Yamauchi, and Ashina Isshin, about 1.9 meters.

Height alone did not equal combat ability. Owl, at 2.45 meters, stood no chance against Ashina Isshin. Tenzen Yamauchi likely wouldn’t survive two minutes against Wolf.

The Interior Ministry could dominate the Ashina Cohort because they had unified all regions outside Ashina. The assembled legion consisted entirely of outside experts, so their stature was no disadvantage compared to the Ashina Cohort.

After finishing his trade with Harunaga, Lannor prepared to return to Hirata Estate. He tucked the Godseed pellet safely into his Alchemy Sack, planning to study it with Tissaia once back at Aretuza. The corpse of a tiny deity dwelling within plants—just the thought made it invaluable. Lannor guessed that the high quality of medicinal ingredients in this Ashina region, aside from Fountainhead Waters as a “high-grade nutrient source,” owed something to such small, once-living deities as well.

Passing the Dragonspring River water-drawing spot, twilight had settled in. Only a faint glow lingered on the horizon, leaving the area dim but not dark. Something there made Lannor instinctively slow his steps.

His cat eyes scanned carefully before confirming it was a grotesque figure. Stocky like a potato with relatively long, thin limbs, clad only in a loincloth, wearing one-tooth geta and a heavy black iron straw hat. Not even a meter and a third tall. Lannor silently wondered if this was the result of drinking Fountainhead Waters.

The figure drew water from the river, filling a Mibu Balloon with care. The balloon was more elaborate than anything Kotaro’s mother had made, its surface painted with uneven colors and scrawled writing. Once filled, he did not perform the usual blessing—hands clasped, squeezing the balloon over himself. Instead, he simply watched the water flow out, standing motionless in a boredom that bordered on lifelessness.

Lannor had seen this expression before, in Temeria and here alike: the vacant, defeated look of people who no longer knew how to survive. He stepped closer, and the figure merely glanced at him and returned his attention to the draining water. Completely indifferent to a stranger’s approach, in an area recently ravaged by bandits, it was almost a statement of having given up on life.

“You look troubled,” Lannor said casually. “Something happened at home?”

The man in the iron broad-brimmed hat continued staring at the empty balloon for a long moment before speaking in a hoarse, low voice.

“Tenkichi… my son… he’s dead.”

Drawing closer, Lannor saw the inscription on the Mibu Balloon. The writing was crooked, the product of a poorly educated hand. “For Tenkichi,” it read. Yet the letters were carefully done, no ink smudges—a mark of sincere effort. Lannor assumed it was the chaos of last night’s battle that had claimed the child. Judging by the bandits’ ruthless nature, the boy likely had no chance.

Lannor said nothing, could offer no comfort to the man. He passed silently behind him, placing a brief hand on the man’s shoulder. “My condolences.”

The black-iron-hatted figure tilted his head, looking at the shoulder touched and then at Lannor’s retreating back. Turning to face the unending flow of the Dragonspring River, his expression remained lifeless. He felt a fleeting sense that something was amiss with the passing man, but with his son gone, fatigue and apathy stifled all thought.

* * *

Human vitality is stubborn. Only a few days after the bandits’ assault, the people of Hirata Estate already seemed to have forgotten that horrific night. They worked, labored, and supported their families. Scorched houses left marks, but few seemed to care.

Tenzen Yamauchi, the commander of the Ashina reinforcements, had attempted several private conversations with the Divine Heir, all refused. He grew restless in consequence. Overall, thanks to the people’s efforts and their remaining resources, Hirata Estate was steadily rebuilding.

Lannor, meanwhile, had settled into a life resting on his earned merits. His primary days now involved lessons with Butterfly and Ashina Isshin. The rewards of that one night—something most samurai would never achieve in a lifetime—secured him peace. He planned to maintain this calm until the next Conjunction of the Spheres Rift. After all, his first encounter with a sweeping military raid had been misfortune enough; he doubted his life would see much upheaval after this.

“Clack!”

An unsharpened, long kunai struck Lannor’s raised vambrace with a crisp noise. Lady Butterfly, her expression as impassive as stone, watched the tall, heavily armored Ming Chinese nearby.

“Can’t you take that armor off? Load-bearing training is too early for you.” The venerable shinobi muttered. Who would attempt Lightfoot in full heavy armor? That wasn’t combat arts—it was magic.

Shinobi even complained if their own gear was too heavy, saying it impeded their movement.

“I refuse that suggestion.” Lannor lifted a hand to smooth his disheveled silver-white hair, smiling lightly. “Lady Butterfly, I know myself too well. Without armor, I’d become obsessed with the graceful, flowing combat style like you shinobi. It looks stylish and sharp, true, but I also enjoy the defense, margin for error, and the sheer thrill of heavy armor. My future battles will be more complex and dangerous, so to prevent my combat style from skewing, I start with plate armor.”

He shrugged.

In truth, under Mentos’ learning mode, Lannor had already begun Lightfoot training. The armor merely suppressed visible results. Beginner Lightfoot could reduce one’s effective weight by roughly five kilograms while maintaining muscle strength. Lannor estimated that a master like Owl, when leaping, wouldn’t experience more than twenty kilograms of effective load, combined with his leg strength and force output to spring ten meters high.

Lady Butterfly’s lips twitched subtly at Lannor’s grin in the sunlight, before she sent another unsharpened kunai flying. Lannor tilted his head effortlessly to dodge, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Training now, no goofing off!”

The witcher shrugged. “Fine, you win.”

Lady Butterfly’s training ground for Lannor had originally been used before Wolf had completed his apprenticeship.

The first thing that struck the witcher reminded him of childhood television shows: young trainees using everyday wooden or bamboo apparatus in clever ways, the ingenuity apparent, but so was the difficulty of the exercises themselves.

Lady Butterfly handed Lannor a specially crafted bamboo tube. The device could only produce airflow when paired with the Lightfoot breathing technique. Combined with the accompanying Lightfoot Force, exhaling into a water basin created small whirlpools without disturbing the surface.

Shinobi used this method to gauge a trainee’s mastery of Lightfoot fundamentals. Only those who succeeded here were allowed onto the cliff runs, where the breathing technique and posture could merge seamlessly with the body’s motion.

At first, Lannor could only create a tiny swirl, but it was enough to make Lady Butterfly’s lips twitch in restrained amusement. Though Wolf had already relayed Lannor’s rapid progress, for an old-school shinobi, it was remarkable to see someone master the basics of a Ninjutsu Esoteric Text in under ten days.

Thanks to his Secondary Heart, Lannor’s blood oxygenation was significantly higher. Even without the later implantation of the Third Lung, his breathing efficiency was already multiple times that of a normal human. This gave him a slight physiological edge, allowing him to complete in two days what would take an ordinary shinobi years. The whirlpool he produced with the special bamboo tube was the size of a small bowl.

Under these conditions, Lannor advanced quickly. He had entered the basics of Lightfoot and its associated Force. While the armor prevented him from launching himself with a grappling hook as Wolf could, he could safely land from seven or eight meters without injury.

Lannor’s interest in shinobi skills ended there. He had already learned stealth and reconnaissance through the Lone Shadow Shinobi Arts Manual, the foundation of shinobi training. Even the Seventeen Shadows only differed in proficiency and understanding from a regular Lone Shadow. Other skills—using prosthetic tools, gathering intelligence—couldn’t compete with a witcher’s alchemy and mutations.

Ashina Isshin’s lessons, however, proved surprising.

Owl, in the Hidden Temple, had been dealt with by Isshin; whether he lived or died, Lannor didn’t know or care, though he assumed the worst. Isshin had placed an altar before the temple’s Eleven-Faced Kannon, holding a branch of cherry blossoms that never wilted, clearly something extraordinary.

Lannor had expected the old man, so thrilled by combat, to immediately draw his sword in class and proclaim that swordplay was learned through killing. Instead, most lessons were methodical, focused on fundamentals and combat arts. Only at the end of each session did Isshin casually demonstrate a few moves.

Now, Lannor held a katana suited to his physique, lifting and parrying under Isshin’s relaxed, almost absentminded blade swings.

Ashina Style, at its core, was Japan’s swordsmanship and demanded certain weapon specifications. Its signature technique, Ashina Cross, required a hand-and-a-half blade like Arondight, making traditional Iaido motions difficult.

“Clang! Clang! Clang!”

Three or four successive strikes, each with distinct angle, interval, and force, appeared random, yet under Isshin’s hands, they flowed naturally, almost like water. Lannor’s cat eyes tracked every movement, raising his blade to parry each swing. Sparks flew with every collision, a ring of fire marking the successful execution of Ascending Carp.

Practiced correctly, Ascending Carp unbalances the opponent’s posture, disrupts muscular coordination, and eventually forces missteps that leave them vulnerable, potentially allowing a single strike to pierce the throat.

“Hmph… Ascending Carp has reached this level, huh.”

The gaunt old man pursed his lips, studying the young witcher’s unwavering focus on the blade.

Ashina Isshin could not quite read Lannor’s expression. One part was pleasure at teaching a naturally gifted student—a rare joy, untainted by jealousy. After all, thirty years ago, he had stirred the Ashina into rebellion. Lannor’s rapid progress stirred no ill will.

But another part…

Damn it! Why didn’t I meet him decades ago?

Now my reflexes aren’t as sharp, and yet here comes someone I could spar with endlessly… truly a shame!

Isshin’s greatest pleasures had always been simple: water from the Dragonspring River brewed into sake, and clashing steel with a worthy opponent. Ashina was etched into his soul—the land, the water, the air. The young man before him possessed extraordinary learning ability, composure under pressure, adaptability, formidable physical aptitude, and unparalleled vitality.

Lannor’s Gene Seed and Secondary Heart endowed him with stamina far beyond ordinary men. Isshin wasn’t unwilling to spar; he simply knew that under controlled conditions, even if exhausted, Lannor’s state would likely remain unperturbed. No true satisfaction could be found if they pushed to exhaustion—better not to risk it.

He did not know about Lannor’s implants, but decades of martial experience gave him a clear estimate of the young man’s endurance and recovery.

The gaunt old man ground his teeth in mild irritation. Lannor raised an eyebrow, sensing nothing amiss.

“Ascending Carp, Descending Carp—you’ve mastered them well. Now, let me see how far your Flowing Water and Breath of Nature have come.”

Lannor acknowledged Ashina Isshin’s words and stopped trying to time and angle his parries perfectly. Instead, he let his blade intercept the attacks casually, merely crossing it in the opponent’s line.

The clash of steel no longer rang with precision, sparks no longer erupted in perfect circles. A Lannor encountering Ashina Style for the first time would have collapsed under seven or eight such strikes, his stance likely ruined. Yet now, though his form twisted in minor disharmony, his posture held.

A stable stance is how a warrior channels muscular force efficiently, whether in offense or defense. Ashina Style·Flowing Water—the principle every Ashina warrior knows—teaches that flowing water is strength itself. Even when defending, one does not meet force with force but uses supple technique to redirect it. This form bolsters stance stability; even under passive or reactive defense, one can maintain coordination and avoid collapse.

Ashina Isshin’s eye twitched at the sight, conceding grudgingly. At this point, purely in terms of Ashina Style, Lannor could rank among the top five within Hirata Estate. Comparing him to Tenzen Yamauchi or Inosuke Nogami, it was hard to say who was superior, though both had trained for over a decade.

Isshin had roamed war-torn Japan in his youth. He’d seen many talented swordsmen, yet he had never encountered a prodigy who picked up an entirely new martial art and, in a few days, reached this level.

“Clang! Clang!”

The final two strikes threw Lannor’s already near-breaking stance into full disarray. His midline opened, legs spread and weight dropped, yet his center wavered, unsteady. This was what it looked like to be pushed to the limits of Ashina Style: muscles stiff, slow, resistant, as if sand had been mixed into the sinews.

A novice facing Ashina Style might think their body had suddenly betrayed them. In such a state, any blade could inflict catastrophic damage; the defender was essentially helpless. Yet Lannor had already experienced this powerless, disjointed sensation many times under Isshin’s hands. In the next instant, his breathing shifted.

Deep, forceful breaths filled his lungs with rich oxygen, channeling through his Secondary Heart with extreme efficiency into every limb. Muscles, bones, and tendons all responded, corrected, and engaged. In just over a second, his collapsed stance was restored.

Breath of Nature—the breathing technique—corrected imperfect movement in real time, allowing quick adjustment of posture during combat. Before combat, it could serve as rapid warm-up, preparing the body for battle. Long-term practice, Isshin claimed, gradually corrected posture in daily life: walking, sitting, and standing with proper alignment. Chronic spinal or lumbar strain had no hold over those who mastered it.

Lannor thought of the late Nogami Gensai and saw the truth in this: even at his age, the samurai remained erect and composed.

After reviewing Lannor’s progress, Isshin quickly ended the day’s session. Lannor couldn’t say why, but it seemed the old man was in a hurry. Ashina Style’s techniques—ranging from the foundational Ascending Carp to the ultimate Ashina Cross—were fully imparted. Theoretically, Lannor had absorbed them all; only operational proficiency remained.

In contrast, Floating Passage, a singular sword technique, still posed a challenge. He had shown it to Isshin, whose expression shifted with subtle recognition and memory, as if recalling a comrade or a bygone duel.

“The origin of this technique… haha, she was a remarkable swordswoman,” the old man chuckled. “Her movements—light, graceful, like dancing—when her eyes meet yours, it feels as if she might gently pull you under water… haha! Last time I locked eyes with her, I nearly got cut during practice!”

Isshin’s tone carried more delight than fear, as if winning her favor were a conquest in itself. Perhaps, for him, her swordplay was even more prized than her beauty. Yet regarding Lannor’s ability to learn it, he could only laugh.

“If you could discard your plate armor, I might believe you could replicate Floating Passage. But now… I hear your Lightfoot training isn’t ideal, haha.”

…You old scrawny man, with your ‘haha’—you clearly have no understanding of Heavy Armor’s thrill!

Before Lannor left, Isshin rested a hand on his sword hilt at the waist, as he did at the end of every lesson. The temple’s flickering candlelight threw his lone eye into sharp relief, eagle-like in the glow.

“Lannor, Ashina Style is a free art. Victory is mine; otherwise, there are no restrictions. Jinsuke Saze’s Ashina Cross has been modified to the point of chaos. His preternatural flash-draw cannot even be controlled in swing direction. Technically, an extreme flaw—but I never forbade it. Ashina Style is individual, flexible.

“I do not want someone like you to become a boring rule-follower, Lannor. That would be a shame.”

The witcher strode away, waving without turning back to acknowledge the words. Unorthodox, by Japanese standards, yet Isshin watched his retreating form and laughed. He knew this young man disregarded the world’s rules, and that made him all the more intriguing.

For a warrior capable of true combat, quirks and habits merely add color to honor.

Isshin’s philosophy had long been clear to Lannor. With Mentos assisting in Ashina Style study, they both recognized the founder’s principle: victory is paramount, and nothing else is forbidden. The style acted as an integrated platform, allowing individual interpretation and mastery to produce unique results.

Mentos analyzed Isshin’s hand muscles—he could wield spear arts, and seemingly even a matchlock rifle. Every strike, every motion, belonged to Ashina Style.

And as for Isshin’s concern about becoming a rule-bound drone? That was no problem for Lannor. Had they not known he would train under this old man in the future, the first sparring session alone—his Igni Sign aimed or not—would have sufficed.

Rule-bound?

Look at the bomb in my hand. I call it Ashina Style·Arcane Blast. Anyone disagree? Speak now.

Once Lannor returned to Aretuza and drained the chaos magic of two arch-level sorceresses into the bomb, he could declare: Ashina Style is the invincible swordsmanship. Anyone—sorcerer or Dimeritium-equipped legion—would be too afraid to argue.

The next morning, Lannor rose as usual and went out to the Antechamber courtyard for his morning training.

The witcher carried Arondight on his back, a gift from the Lady of the Lake, and at his waist hung an Ashina-made uchigatana. It wasn’t a relic or masterpiece—nothing like Wolf’s Hirata Clan Relic-Blade, Kusabimaru, and certainly no match for Ashina Isshin’s Wyrm-Cleaver of Adamantine Steel—but Lannor had taken it to improve his Ashina Style proficiency. While Ashina Style was a form of Japanese swordsmanship, its cultural atmosphere felt more comfortable to Lannor than the rigid School of the Bear methods. He was considering whether to specialize in Eastern swordplay techniques while using the tactical thinking of Western swordsmanship to command them—a personal exploration of East-West integration.

“Arondight is the lady’s sword… maybe if I ask, I could adjust its form a bit?” Lannor muttered under his breath, swinging the uchigatana almost instinctively. The Lady of the Lake’s blade was a straight, hand-and-a-half sword, not suited to many Ashina Style techniques. Mentos, running calculations on Lannor’s movement data, interjected with a rare bit of humor.

“Sir, you can be confident. If you put on a serious face in front of the Lady, take a low stance, and tilt your gaze upward with those big watery eyes, she’ll probably melt. That’s nothing.”

Lannor imagined the scene briefly, and his swing faltered just slightly.

“Heh… thanks, Mentos.”

“My pleasure, sir. At your service.”

Satisfied, Lannor completed his morning training with Mentos’ banter accompanying him. A sentry from the Antechamber approached, bowing slightly before speaking.

“Lord Lannor, a samurai outside the Antechamber requests an audience. Shall I turn him away? He doesn’t look particularly trustworthy.”

“No need, I have time. I’ll see him myself.”

Even before the words left his mouth, Lannor knew who it was. Kotaro—the young, unremarkable samurai whose looks had turned many Antechamber sentries away the day he was ranked lower-class. Approaching the Main Hall, the courtyard felt sparse; two burned trees had been removed and replaced with small saplings. Kotaro stood waiting, clad in standard samurai garb. At barely 1.5 meters, slight and thin, he looked even more comical in the uniform.

Lannor’s attention was not swayed by local prejudices. With a grin, he called out as he walked toward the young samurai.

“Hey, Kotaro! Long time no see.”

Kotaro stiffened. He had been taken aback by Lannor’s earlier impressions of him, feeling the need to assume a proper samurai demeanor. He straightened, face flushing red, and gave a formal ninety-degree bow.

“Lord Lannor!”

Lannor curved around, approaching from Kotaro’s side and lightly patting his shoulder.

“Lord? You flatter me,” Kotaro stammered, scratching his head, cheeks burning.

“I came to ask about the Taro Troop,” Lannor said. Instantly, Mentos conjured an image in his mind: the Taro Troop, the massive, two-and-a-half-meter-tall bandit with the simpleton features from the night of the raid. Kotaro explained that Taro had originally been a disabled child in Senpou Temple, trained into a guard monk soldier, likely abducted by bandits from the mountains. That night, Taro hadn’t killed anyone; Lannor had simply knocked him unconscious.

“Did he lose control during forced labor?” Lannor asked, brow furrowed.

“No, not at all,” Kotaro said, scratching his head. “We intend to return him to Senpou Temple. He didn’t harm anyone, and many at the estate are devout followers—they don’t blame him. Plus, he’s been industrious the past few days, doing the work of seven or eight men. Everyone agrees he shouldn’t be punished further.”

Lannor nodded. “That makes sense. If there’s no objection, let him go. But why come to me yourself? Ah, right—you have the Star Offering Rite at Senpou Temple, correct?”

Lannor led the way toward the Forced Labor area, preparing to settle the matter in person while casually asking Kotaro.

“Yes. Thank you for remembering,” Kotaro replied.

“That was the last thing your mother arranged for you before she passed, wasn’t it? A Star Offering Rite at a high temple. Quite remarkable.” Kotaro nodded gravely.

“Yes. I must attend to honor her wish. I’ll also return Taro Troop to Senpou Temple; the masters will be anxious for him. This trip is for the rite, and for my mother’s last wish. I’ll pray for you there as well.”

Lannor waved him off. “Unnecessary. This was arranged solely for you. No need, I don’t believe in Buddhism anyway.”

Soon, they arrived at the Forced Labor area. Dust swirled across the worksite, and a hulking ‘Mound of Flesh’ stood prominently, a reminder of the physical labor and human toll present in the rebuilding of Hirata Estate.

The construction site in medieval Japan was a harsh sight for Lannor.

A group of men, clad only in loincloths, worked in the swirling dust, sweat running down their bodies, muscles glistening under the sun. It was a shocking, almost unbearable spectacle, but ancient forced labor had always been messy and dangerous; wearing more clothes would only have invited heatstroke, possibly death.

Kotaro came jogging forward, calling over the massive figure of the ‘Mound of Flesh’ from the site. Taro Troop followed, his plump body bouncing with each step. The simpleton features of his face held a naive, earnest smile, a stark contrast to the panic-stricken expression he’d worn during the bandit raid. Even in forced labor, it was clear he found this far preferable to the chaos of the bandits. He was a child of the temple, pure and unspoiled.

As they reached Lannor, Taro Troop’s shadow fell over the witcher like a small hill. Yet beneath the imposing bulk, his head hung low, hands fidgeting with the rope around his waist, tugging, releasing, shifting—like a schoolboy unsure how to speak to strangers.

“That’s the Taro Troop you knocked out that night… speak up, will you?” Kotaro said, bowing slightly, then nudged Taro Troop with his foot. The boy looked embarrassed, struggling to remember how he was supposed to speak.

“Donor… may one such as I return… to Senpou Temple? One such as I shall, in the days to come… pray for Donor day and night?”

He stumbled over the words, meant to vow solemnly to Lannor, yet kept glancing at Kotaro as if seeking confirmation. His firm oath had become a tentative question.

Lannor scratched his head. “Enough, no need to recite it. You didn’t kill anyone that night, and the work you’ve done covers the damage you caused. If you want to return to the temple, just go with Kotaro.”

He added lightly, “With your… destructive tendencies, don’t let anyone easily mislead you again. Stay put in the temple.”

The enormous figure bent forward, hands on his knees, face close to Lannor’s. His wide-set eyes and small sockets shone with pure excitement.

“Really? You’ve forgiven me! I can return to the temple! Thank you! Not only did you knock me out that night without letting me hurt anyone, now you’re letting me go back!”

“You… you’re really a good person!”

The giant Taro Troop’s voice broke as tears came, hands still braced on his knees. Kotaro patted his shoulder from the side, only able to reach him in that posture.