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Chapter 14– The Ghost of Two Swords
(Adrian POV)
The timeless zone glimmered like an endless ocean of stars, each thread a door to history. My enchanted gear hummed faintly against my skin as I focused on the shimmering strand leading to 17th-century Japan.
My target: Miyamoto Musashi.
The man of legend. The swordsman who fought over sixty duels undefeated. The author of The Book of Five Rings.
If I can survive against him, I can survive against anyone.
I whispered the command, and the world shifted.
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Arrival – Edo Period, Japan
The scent of pine and wet soil filled my lungs. I stood at the edge of a small village. Wooden houses with thatched roofs lined a dirt road. Farmers paused, staring at my strange clothes before quickly bowing their heads.
In the distance, beyond a ridge, I felt him. His presence was unmistakable, like a blade drawn before the cut.
Miyamoto Musashi.
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First Duel
He stood in a clearing, tall and broad-shouldered, hair tied messily, dressed in worn kimono. A long sword in his left hand, a shorter one at his waist. His gaze locked onto me instantly, sharp as steel.
"You're not from here," he said in a deep, calm voice.
I bowed slightly. "I've come to challenge you."
His lips curved faintly. "Another challenger. Very well."
He drew both swords with fluid ease, the air itself sharpening around him.
I slid into stance, fists clenched, enchanted bracelet glowing faintly.
The clash was instant.
Steel hissed through the air, faster than sight. I ducked beneath the arc of his katana, driving a kick toward his ribs. He twisted, parried with his wakizashi, and my shin burned from the impact.
His movements were strange — not like modern martial artists. Each step was unorthodox, each swing unpredictable, improvised yet precise.
So this is the Two-Heaven style…
Our exchange was fierce but brief. Sweat ran down my neck as I forced him back with a flurry of strikes, channeling every bit of training.
Then—he stopped.
Right as I lunged for a decisive blow, he stepped back, lowered his blades, and turned away.
"What—?" I froze mid-strike.
He sheathed his swords calmly. "Enough."
I blinked, chest heaving. "We're not done!"
But he was already walking off, vanishing into the woods.
Just like that.
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The Chase
I found him again two days later near a riverbank, carving a wooden sword.
"Fight me again," I demanded.
His eyes flicked up briefly. "You're strong. Too strong for now."
He rose, wooden blade in hand, and the duel reignited. His style shifted again, like water changing shape. Wooden sword against my fists, each strike heavy, measured, deliberate.
And then, just as before—he stopped mid-clash.
"You've grown sharper since last time." His tone was matter-of-fact, almost approving. Then he walked away, leaving me fuming by the river.
This pattern repeated.
A field at sunrise. A deserted shrine at night. A cliff overlooking the sea.
Every time, Musashi accepted my challenge. Every time, he fought with unrelenting precision. Every time, he ended it abruptly.
And every time, I was left with sweat, bruises, and burning frustration.
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Musashi's Philosophy
By the fifth duel, I snapped.
"Why do you keep running?!" I shouted, chest heaving, sweat dripping down my brow.
Musashi studied me calmly, swords at his side.
"I don't run. I move on."
My fists clenched. "You're afraid to lose."
His eyes narrowed, but not in anger. In… amusement.
"When I lose, I don't lose. I carve my opponent into my mind. I face them there, again and again, until I can defeat them. Once I do, I no longer need them."
He tapped his temple. "You. I've already defeated you here."
My pulse quickened. "So to you, I'm just a memory to overcome?"
He gave a faint smile. "Exactly."
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The Breaking Point
That night, I sat alone in the timeless zone, body aching from bruises that even the Bracelet of Mending struggled to soothe.
Musashi was unlike anyone I had ever fought. Not just because of his skill, but because of his mind. He didn't cling to victories or defeats. He refined them into lessons, stepping forward without looking back.
And that meant—unless I forced him to truly recognize me, he would always leave.
I needed to corner him. Push him into a duel he couldn't walk away from.
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Final Duel – The Cliffside
The opportunity came at dawn, on a cliff overlooking crashing waves. Musashi stood there, gazing at the horizon as gulls wheeled overhead.
I approached slowly, breathing steady. "One more fight."
He didn't look back. "Why should I?"
"Because this time," I said firmly, "I won't let you walk away."
He turned, studying me with quiet intensity. Then, for the first time, he smirked.
"Very well."
His blades sang free of their sheaths.
The duel erupted like thunder.
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The Duel
I launched forward, fists hammering like pistons. He met me head-on, katana slicing arcs of silver light, wakizashi snapping in precise jabs. Each clash rang like a bell, sparks flying from enchanted wards that barely kept me whole.
My bracelet pulsed, healing shallow cuts. The shellskin charm dulled bruises. But none of it made the fight easier.
Musashi's style was a storm. Twin blades weaving offense and defense seamlessly, adapting faster than I could predict.
But I adapted too. Every clash carved lessons into my body. Every exchange burned new counters into my muscles.
We battled across the cliffside, kicking up dust, feet skidding on rock.
At one point, his katana sliced across my ribs—blood welled hot, but the bracelet sealed it halfway shut. I gritted my teeth, countered with a spinning elbow, and actually grazed his cheek.
For the first time, Musashi bled.
His eyes widened faintly. Then, slowly, he grinned.
"Good."
The fight grew fiercer.
I drove a knee into his stomach. He twisted, slamming his wakizashi hilt into my jaw. My head rang, but I refused to fall.
We broke apart, chests heaving, both bloodied, both grinning despite the pain.
And then—I surged forward with everything I had.
A feint left, a low kick, a hook to draw his guard high. His katana rose. His wakizashi dipped.
And I slid through the opening, slamming my fist into his chest with enough force to knock him flat against the rock.
He lay there, chest rising and falling, swords fallen from his grasp.
Silence.
Then he laughed. A deep, booming laugh that echoed against the sea.
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Musashi's Acknowledgment
"You win." His voice carried no bitterness, only respect.
I collapsed beside him, breathing hard. "Finally."
He turned his head toward me, eyes alight. "You are strong. Stronger than most I've ever faced. But remember this—strength is not meant to be clung to. Defeat me today, and tomorrow, I will already be stronger than the man you bested."
I met his gaze. "Then one day, we'll fight again."
He smiled faintly. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I will find another. That is the way of the sword."
As the sun rose, painting the sky gold, I bowed deeply to him.
This battle wasn't about victory. It was about learning. About growth. About refusing to let the past run from me.
And in that moment, I understood Musashi's philosophy.
Defeat isn't the end. It's the beginning of mastery.
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Return
The timeless zone shimmered, pulling me back to my own time.
My body ached. My ribs throbbed. But my mind burned brighter than ever.
I'd stood toe-to-toe with Musashi. I'd forced him to acknowledge me.
And though I'd won—barely—his words echoed in my head:
Tomorrow, I will already be stronger than the man you bested.
I clenched my fists.
So would I.
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