When Ryuji gave his answer, G.S.D could only sigh in resignation.
Those who set foot upon the path of blood-qi never met a good end. The sheer force of that power was something no fragile human body could truly contain; even circulating it was enough to bring despair.
Berserkers, who wielded their own blood as a weapon, often perished after slaying their enemies—either from exhausting their lifeblood entirely or from being consumed by foreign blood-qi within them.
The so-called Blood Evil might suppress alien qi through sheer might, endlessly devouring blood to prolong their lives, but even that was only a temporary reprieve.
The truth was cruel: blood-qi ravaged the brain, shook the spirit, and battered the body. Each surge of power became a ticking time bomb inside them.
And when they had absorbed so much blood-qi that their bodies could no longer contain it—destruction was inevitable.
Unless they underwent Bloodburn.
"Bloodburn is a trial every berserker must face," G.S.D said heavily. "By then, the body can no longer bear the weight of such power. Only through tempering the qi in fire can one truly command it. During this ordeal, blood-qi swells uncontrollably throughout the body, even gathering in the brain. The will within that qi will assault your mind—you must shatter the illusions that rise within you, reclaim control over flesh and spirit, and burn it all away. Only then can you transform that raging blood-qi into a force you can truly wield, no longer bound by mortal limits. From that moment on, blood-qi is your life itself. Your body will no longer be that of an ordinary human."
He had spoken aloud the destiny of all berserkers.
But when his gaze returned to Ryuji, his tone grew more complicated.
"Of course… that applies to ordinary berserkers. You, however, are different."
There was a trace of lament in his voice now.
"You stand before two paths."
"Please, teach me."
"The first," G.S.D said, "is to continue practicing with your blood as it is now—strong, pure, untainted. When the time comes, you could absorb the blood of others and undergo the usual Bloodburn. It would be smoother than most paths, but also far more dangerous. Without countless brushes with death behind you, success is nearly impossible. Whether you could ever become a true Blood Evil would depend on luck as much as will."
Ryuji's lips twisted. This was exactly the path he sought to avoid. He had no desire to recklessly devour foreign blood, nor did he possess the "Ghost Arm" that let others draw qi with ease. That was a matter of innate talent, not effort—and to him, that path looked like suicide.
"The second way," G.S.D continued, "is to burn your own blood by choice. To enter Bloodburn willingly. The blood-qi manuals you've studied may speak of purification, but this is something else. Bloodburn is faster, far more efficient—but also more painful. Your blood is so impossibly pure that you needn't fear losing control in the process. You can ignite it again and again, each flame strengthening your body, forging a vessel that can bear even greater blood-qi, allowing you to contain more than ever before. But the demands are immense. Your control must be absolute, your will unbreakable. If you falter amidst the agony—if you fail to stop in time—Bloodburn will consume every drop of qi you have and leave you to die."
He leaned back, voice softening. "It is this second road I would see you take. You may never grow blood armor or assume a demonic form like others, but your body will become a fortress. Your life force will burn endlessly. You will have no weakness in the mortal sense—unless your head or heart are destroyed in an instant, you will not die."
It was slower, yes. But safer.
Safer, at least, for Ryuji. For most men, it was still suicide. Out of a hundred who tried, perhaps one or two might survive—and even then, they would be crippled or broken in mind.
Only because Ryuji had come so far without suffering any lasting harm did G.S.D even dare to speak of it. For anyone else, this path was still nothing but demonic folly.
Normal blood-qi simply did not recover fast enough.
"That said," G.S.D added with a shrug, "this old man is only offering counsel. I am no berserker myself. The road you choose must be yours alone. If you truly wish to learn, I will teach you how to ignite your blood and step into Bloodburn. But if another path lies open to you… I would urge you to take it."
But Ryuji's mind was already clear. He knew what he wanted. More than that, he alone possessed the ability to restore blood-qi at a pace no one else could.
"Master G.S.D," Ryuji said firmly, "I choose the second path. Please accept this as my gift of apprenticeship."
He placed before the old man a few gold bars he possessed, even the sword from his hip, keeping the rest for his living expenses.
But G.S.D only shook his head.
"You need not call me master. I have taught you nothing yet. And I have no use for your money. As for taking a swordsman's blade—that would be a grave insult indeed."
His hand waved the offering away. Wealth meant little to him now. If he had ever cared for gold, why would he have refused the Empire's summons?
All he sought was to guide and protect the next generation of ghost swordsmen.
Though Ryuji was no ghost swordsman, he too was a young man burdened with doubts about his chosen path. As an elder, G.S.D felt it only right to offer counsel and guidance—that was simply his duty.
But Ryuji merely retrieved his sword and left the pile of gold untouched.
"As a seeker of knowledge," he said quietly, "I must also recognize the price of wisdom. Knowledge may be priceless, but the kindness of one who shares it deserves to be honored in kind. If the worth of knowledge is never acknowledged, others will forget its value altogether."
Though G.S.D had not yet taught him much, even pointing out a direction and agreeing to pass on the secret of Bloodburn was already a great kindness. For that, he should offer recompense.
If G.S.D refused to accept him as a disciple, then he would at least provide financial support.
And besides…
G.S.D's strength might not be on the level of the Apostles, the supreme beings of Arad. But compared to the Four Grand Master—even the one waiting just outside, the man called Grand Master Aganzo—if it came to a true life-and-death battle, Ryuji believed only G.S.D would walk away alive.
As for himself… whether he could defeat Aganzo, Ryuji was not sure. Perhaps yes, perhaps no—the man's swordsmanship and battlefield experience were certainly beyond his own.
"And beyond that," Ryuji continued, glancing toward the children born with ghost arms, "you help so many others. Surely, gold could aid you further. Medicines, food, books for those children—such things could change their lives."
G.S.D was silent for a long time. Then he shook his head.
What Ryuji said was true. Though he believed hardship forged resolve, he also knew the children longed for the simple joys of a fuller life. A school for them was something he had once dreamed of. But if he became too wealthy, too respected, many ghost swordsmen would never dare to seek him out. A blind old man with nothing—that was easy to approach. A figure of influence was not.
"…Very well," he said at last.
He said nothing more, but began to explain the technique of Bloodburn in painstaking detail. Ryuji listened intently.
And then—
"So difficult…?"
He had already tried to test the method as he listened, guiding blood-qi around his fingers. But no matter how he willed it, it refused to ignite. His qi was too calm, too stable.
"That is because your blood-qi is not yet abundant enough," G.S.D explained. "Unlike other berserkers, you have not squandered your life, nor stuffed yourself with alien qi. Your blood has never truly burned. Strictly speaking, you are not even a berserker at all."
He paused.
"And without dancing so long at the edge of death, your will, too, lacks that extremity. I do not mean you are weak-willed. But you have not trained your body to be nothing but fuel for power. From the day ghost swordsmen awaken their ghost arms, they learn to defy instinct, to turn their own lives into strength. For you, self-preservation still lies too deep. To ignite your blood, you must forge a will stronger than your very instincts."
His voice was heavy with regret. If the ghost arm had been a true blessing, countless men would have sought it out. But the reality was grim: save for madmen in the Empire, no sane soul willingly courted Khazan's curse.
For the ghost hand brought only fleeting strength—while constantly gnawing away at life itself. Even suppressed, it leached vitality, lending its bearer power without consent.
"Your road is one no one has walked before," G.S.D said finally. "How you proceed is yours to decide. Perhaps battle with powerful foes, or bitter training, or the discovery of something worth more than your own life—such things may grant you the will to burn your blood."
"So without the curse of Khazan, without the ghost arm… one must possess a will that transcends life and death itself?" Ryuji asked.
"For now, that is how it seems," G.S.D admitted. "Even I have never seen such a case."
From his back, he drew forth a scroll.
"Here. Recipes for certain elixirs, and some sword manuals. Study them as you please. Should you have questions, come find me. But take care: though I've stripped away the influence of the ghost arm, some techniques still draw on its power. Learn from them—but never follow them blindly."
He was deeply curious just how far Ryuji could go, and wished he would not die too soon. But his knowledge would always be more useful to ghost swordsmen than to an outsider.
"My thanks, Master G.S.D."
Ryuji accepted the scroll without hesitation. He did not open it immediately, but exchanged a few more words with the old man before departing.
And as he left, he saw that Aganzo had not gone. The Grand Master leaned against the mouth of the alley, waiting.
"Do not seek strength in Khazan's curse," Aganzo said, his eyes shadowed with melancholy. He had overheard enough of Ryuji's exchange with G.S.D to understand his plight. And he would not see another young man throw himself into ruin as others had.
Looking at Ryuji—so much like himself in youth, striving desperately for strength yet stepping onto an untrodden road—he hesitated only a moment. Then he drew a worn notebook from his coat and tossed it to him.
"That is the record of an unfortunate power. My notes. Perhaps they'll help you."
Ryuji caught it in surprise, staring at the book in his hands.
"Your notes? You're giving them to me just like that?"
He truly couldn't fathom why Aganzo would part with something so personal.
"Because you, too, wield a greatsword. I dislike watching others stray. As for why… who knows."
Perhaps it was fear—fear that this youth would one day chase the ghost arm, repeating the tragedy of his beloved Luxi. Or perhaps it was hope—that Ryuji would one day stand as his rival, strong enough to erase sorrow in the clash of blades.
He didn't know. He only felt it. Ryuji was important. To the world. To himself. Someone who must be treated differently.
It was a strange sense, almost like fate. A certainty they would meet again.
And beyond that—Aganzo longed for a rival. A warrior of his own style, his own strength. Someone to fight without restraint.
"In any case," he said, turning away, "don't die so easily. And when we meet again—pay my tavern bill. That will be the price of my notebook."
With that, he was gone.
Leaving Ryuji staring, baffled.
"…What's with this treatment that only anime protagonist get?"
After saying this, Ryuji casually flipped open Aganzo's notebook—only for his eyes to suddenly widen.
Because the very first line he saw nearly made him choke.
{ "Why is it that, after breaking through that bottleneck, I suddenly found myself able to make my sword float in midair? Could 'Sword Intent' truly hold such power? But upon closer inspection, I realized this method of training had been there from the start—it's a form of spiritual force. Yet it seems only blades once wielded by true masters can be freely controlled. These swords already carry traces of sword intent, and my spiritual power resonates with it… is that the reason?"
"Hmm. More research has borne fruit. It turns out Sword Intent truly is another kind of spiritual strength. When resonated, it produces an even greater power. In that case, why not form an array of blades? The name needs some thought…"
"Yes—let's call it the Storm Style. After all, when unleashed it rages like a tempest. It can even summon the phantoms of mighty weapons I don't actually possess. Since they're formed from condensed spirit energy, they carry no real weight, nor the drag of steel. They strike freely, endlessly, in overwhelming numbers… almost like wielding lightsabers." }
Awakening?!
Ryuji immediately understood what this meant.
In the world of Arad, ordinary people could never push beyond the limits of their own bodies. They might defeat monsters the size of houses, but they were still human.
Some, however, transcended that line. They awakened—discovering impossible powers, carving a unique path far beyond the mundane.
This was known simply as Awakening.
When one's inner strength awakened, they ceased being mere mortals.
And the Second Awakening—that was when those who had already surpassed humanity pushed further, reaching the very threshold of divinity. Within their chosen path, they broke the laws of the world itself.
The Bloodburn Secret Art he had just received was such a power. Among Berserkers, it was a technique of the Second Awakening, reaching into the realm of gods. But since Ryuji wasn't a traditional Berserker, it counted only as his first Awakening.
Even so…
Aganzo had just casually handed him the path to Awakening as a Swordmaster.
To put it bluntly—an awakened master could singlehandedly crush an army. And this was a fantasy world army: dragons, demons, monstrosities—none were beyond them.
Those who underwent a Second Awakening? They became disasters in human form. Even calamities that threatened the entire world could fall before them.
And the Third Awakening…
That was where mortals touched the seat of gods themselves.
At that level, even the Apostles would no longer be able to dismiss you. The fate of the entire world could shift with your whim.
"…What the hell?"
Ryuji stared down at the notebook, dazed.
There was no way his luck was this good. Even as a transmigrator, his life had been nothing but close calls—narrow escapes where his power alone dragged him back from inevitable death. He had never considered himself fortunate.
"Is this… because of the Primordial Power inside me?"
His thoughts turned to the force he had gained alongside Seria, that forbidden strength pulsing deep in his soul. Not only had it given him overwhelming might, it seemed to warp the very world around him—his affinity with others, his fortune itself.
But he couldn't be sure.
"…Still, it's not exactly a bad thing."
Taking a deep breath, he headed back toward the inn where Seria and the others were waiting.
Once inside, he immediately spread out the two manuals before him.
The scroll from G.S.D. was clearly penned by someone else on his behalf, the handwriting youthful and stiff, but the contents were painstakingly thorough.
Almost too thorough.
"Wave Force… and Swordsmanship… looks like the old man really wants me to give up on the Bloodburn path."
He skimmed through the methods.
The Wave Force was considered the essence connecting all things. Life, sound, touch, taste, even vision—everything was movement, everything was vibration. To a Wave Swordsman, the world itself was waves. To master those waves meant to master both stillness and motion—ultimately, to master all.
"That would suit Toph pretty well… next time I see her, I'll use this as the price for her virginity."
He smirked, turning to the Swordsmanship section.
Here the basics of blade work were detailed, along with ways to harness one's inner energy—qi—to aid the body. Not unlike the Qi Masters, but tempered with steel. There were methods for projecting sword aura, training speed, fortifying one's frame. Notes even included recipes for tonics that bolstered stamina or numbed pain.
To Ryuji, they were a little lackluster. With the Dragonfire burning in his veins, such slow remedies felt almost trivial.
Still—some of G.S.D.'s warnings were worth remembering.
"Do not face Lancers recklessly before you can freely unleash sword aura. Unless your strength vastly exceeds theirs, you will stand no chance."
"That's… painfully true. Still, even just the Bloodburn made the trip worthwhile."
Closing the scroll with a nod, he turned to Aganzo's notebook—
—only to find it was… something else entirely.
'Dark Elves are so paranoid. I told them the food wasn't poisoned, yet they still had a dog taste it… But seriously, what dog eats chili peppers? Of course it bit me!'
'I'll admit, the Empire's people are infuriating—but their uniforms are… flattering. Still, what's with this 'revive the family' excuse? Forcing themselves on me? Isn't that the Bantu tribe's tradition? Shameless!'
'Nightmare again. This time, Bantu women stripping me and tearing off my pants. Damn you, Bwanga! Next time, I'm throwing you straight into their arms. See how you like it, you bastard!'
'What the hell is Westlan even saying half the time? That lisp… I thought he told me to cover him, and I almost cut Barn down instead!'
'Empire guard uniforms… even the maids wear them? …Unfair.'
'Damn it, I'm exhausted. Heavy swords look cool, sure, but watching Barn stroll around so easily sometimes makes me jealous… Still, nothing beats a heavy sword. It's badass.'
'This move is incredible—shoulder-check the enemy, knock them flying, then leap and strike! Hurts like hell, though. Gotta figure out a way to channel qi and ease the pain…'
'Empire food is awful. Their uniforms, though… do they have to highlight curves that much? Even that lecher Westlan couldn't stop staring. And Bwanga! Didn't you say you weren't into women?!'
'Empire nurses' outfits are… interesting. Strange, but interesting.'
'Do they all love leather pants so much? …Not that I'm complaining.'
'Finally found a cloak worth wearing. Oh—and someone finally admitted I'm the most handsome of the Four Grand Masters. About damn time.'
…
"…"
Ryuji slowly closed the notebook, his expression unreadable.
Yes, there were sword techniques and insights scribbled in there—brilliant ones, even. But they were buried under a mountain of complaints, food reviews, and endless grumbling about his comrades.
Far less a manual of the Grand Master, far more a sarcastic travel diary.
If it were his own? He would've burned it before death, just to keep his name clean.
"…Aganzo… truly a man unconcerned with appearances."
That was the most charitable thing Ryuji could say. In his mind, however, the cool, stoic, tragic figure of the Grand Master had been utterly shattered.
Ryuji closed the battered notebook and leaned back, exhaling a long breath. He finally understood—this man, Aganzo, wasn't the flawless, stoic hero he had imagined. He had been a drunkard, a grumbler, someone who hated vegetables, ogled uniforms, and occasionally sneaked a glance at female swordmasters in tight leather.
"But that's only natural," Ryuji muttered with a crooked smile. "Who hasn't been young once? Even Aganzo wasn't some untouchable figure beyond the dust of the world."
He flipped back into the notes. The later entries grew heavier, the levity disappearing. Buried between the complaints and jokes were gems of insight—real lessons.
Awakening.
Aganzo had described it plainly. One day, at the edge of death in battle, his spirit had answered a mysterious call. At the brink of collapse, a broken sword had risen with his own blade, striking alongside him to finish his enemy. From then on, he had felt swords differently—each carried echoes of the battles it had seen, the thoughts of its wielder, their will carved into steel.
With time, he learned to read a swordsman's skill at a glance, to rouse sword-qi, to summon phantasmal weapons from forgotten legends. And with this power, he forged his ultimate technique: Storm Style. A sword array that flooded the field with spectral blades, every strike multiplied, every movement accelerated, until even the strongest opponent was crushed in the storm of steel.
Aganzuo himself can only strike out forty-eight times at most, but if someone is very strong, this number can increase infinitely!
As long as your body and strength can withstand such consumption!
"What a terrifying sword art… The power scale of Arad really is absurd."
Ryuji carefully studied Aganzo's description of the technique and of that awakened state. He couldn't help but recall his own experiences—back in the world of One Piece. There, his strength had been strangely elevated, and his mastery of awareness, sharpened by Observation Haki and other unique forces, felt eerily close to the realm Aganzo was describing.
"If that's the case…"
Ryuji narrowed his eyes, entering the state he called "Observation Wide Open." In the very next instant—
The sword at his side began to tremble, slowly lifting from the ground.
At the same time, he sensed the blade resonating with his battles—the fights he had endured in Demon Slayer's world, the willpower and instincts that had lingered on every clash between life and death.
He saw again the female monster, felt her desperate hunger to reproduce, and remembered his own unshakable focus as he struck her down. He recalled the battle against the creature with a body like starlight—his agitation, his relentless urgency to destroy the enemy at any cost.
He felt once more the despair and terror of facing that mountain-like behemoth. And then—
The stars.
His consciousness jolted. He had just glimpsed countless stars: first Earth, then the solar system, then the Milky Way… Each step, his perspective zoomed outward, his own world shrinking further and further, until even the galaxy became no more than a faint dot, swallowed by the immeasurable scale of the observable universe.
Recalling his past, Ryuji immediately understood whose mark this was.
"This is… the 'Will' of that world?"
He looked down at the plain, heavy sword in his hand, surprise flickering in his eyes.
The blade was still ordinary—so ordinary that any half-decent weapon could snap it apart. And yet it carried within it something remarkable. To an average man it was nothing but scrap iron, but to swordsmen like him and Aganzo, it was nearly divine—a legendary weapon.
For they could draw upon that boundless Will of the world itself, channel it into sword-qi, and unleash unfathomable power.
"It seems I can't just discard it. A witness to the Will of the World, huh?"
He ran his hand along the weapon, amused. Without Aganzo's notes to guide him, he might have tossed it away or gifted it offhandedly as a token to a disciple.
Knowledge truly was the greatest treasure.
"Learning… yes, no matter when or where, it's always worth doing."
With a soft chuckle, Ryuji decided he would forge or acquire another weapon for actual use. This one he would keep in reserve—for now, wielding it recklessly at his current level would only squander its value.
"Speaking of which, with my current mindset, I should be able to find a weapon truly suited to me."
He immediately thought of the compass watch he carried, and pulled it out to guide him toward such a weapon.
Sure enough, the needle began to spin. Excitement stirred in him. He quickly donned his clothes, tucked away the notes, and stepped out of the inn.
The compass turned and shifted directions as he moved, and his anticipation grew. This meant the weapon wasn't far. He wouldn't need to cross great distances—it was nearby.
He broke into a run, so hurried that the city guards shouted after him. Ryuji barely paid them any mind, only sparing a glance before pressing on.
Soon, the compass led him onto one of Hendon Myre's main thoroughfares, lined with countless vacant shopfronts. The arrow pointed straight ahead.
He rushed forward—
—And found himself face-to-face with a round, plump and perky butt.
A very familiar butt.
Its owner was bent over, tinkering with something when Ryuji arrived. He stopped, speechless. Then he realized the compass was pointing directly at that butt.
"…You've got to be kidding me. Forget it."
With a resigned sigh, Ryuji walked up and gave it a firm smack.
"Yo, Kiri!"
His palm sank into familiar softness and bounce, sending a pleasant sensation up his arm. The woman yelped, springing up as if shocked, whipping out a revolver and aiming it squarely at him.
When she saw who it was, however, Kiri—her face smudged with streaks of grease—rolled her eyes and lowered the gun. She made a mocking hand gesture and asked, half-teasing, half-concerned:
"Well, look who isn't dead yet."
~~~~~~~~~~
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