Kiryu Kazuma had developed a sharp sense of danger, thanks to hard lessons from his previous life.
Unlike his younger sister, Kiryu Chiyoko, he wasn't the type to brush off the threats of those slick-tongued yakuza just because "Japan is one of the safest countries in the world."
So after finishing his mapo tofu over rice and miso soup, Kazuma headed straight for the dojo.
Truth be told, he hadn't wanted the miso soup. In his past life, he'd been Cantonese—and for Cantonese, soup was serious business.
Japanese miso soup, after all, relied heavily on a condiment called miso, which tasted strikingly similar to MSG.
And for Cantonese cuisine, adding MSG to soup was a major faux pas—it masked the natural umami of the ingredients.
Naturally, Kazuma wasn't a fan. Back in his previous life, after trying miso soup once at a Japanese restaurant, he'd never ordered it again—no matter how fancy the place.
Given the choice, he'd never drink it. It was a point of Cantonese pride.
But if he didn't drink it, Chiyoko would be upset.
Much like the lunch lady in Nintama Rantarō, Chiyoko had zero tolerance for wasting food. Anything served in front of Kazuma had to be eaten—or he'd get an earful all evening.
And so, Cantonese pride gave way as Kazuma dutifully finished the MSG-laden miso soup—down to the last piece of kombu (kelp) and tofu.
What could he do? Chiyoko was just too lovable a sister to upset.
Once inside the dojo, Kazuma sat down to meditate.
This habit came from his former kendo teacher, Hasegawa Masato of Shintō-ryū. Hasegawa always stressed: "You must meditate before every practice and every match."
Kazuma had once asked, "Does meditating actually help?"
Hasegawa had replied, "I have no idea. But if I skipped it, my master would get mad and make me do twice the air swings. So if you skip it, I'll be mad too."
And thus, meditation had become routine for Kazuma.
This time, though, he was more focused than usual—driven by a heightened sense of danger.
He needed to carefully recall all the training he'd received.
Not long into his meditation, words suddenly appeared in the darkness of his mind's eye.
Startled, Kazuma opened his eyes—only to find the words gone. He hadn't even gotten a clear look at them.
When he closed his eyes again, nothing reappeared.
After repeating the cycle several times, Kazuma suspected the words only showed up when he fully entered a meditative state.
Taking a deep breath, he settled in again—calming his mind, letting his emotions settle—
And the words returned.
Rishin-ryū: 3
Shintō-ryū: 6
Rishin-ryū was the Kiryu family's style, while Shintō-ryū was what Kazuma had trained in before transmigrating.
At first, he thought the numbers represented dan ranks. But then he remembered—before transmigrating, he'd only been a 3rd dan in Shintō-ryū, and even that rank was a bit dubious. After all, kendo in China was still developing, and grading wasn't exactly strict.
Still, even if the numbers didn't match dan ranks, they clearly reflected some measure of proficiency in each style.
Which meant the original Kazuma's sword skills were... so-so. He wasn't even on par with Kazuma's hobbyist level in Shintō-ryū.
No wonder this dojo had no students.
Focusing on the text, Kazuma discovered that if he concentrated on one of the entries, it opened a dropdown-like menu.
Inside were various sword techniques.
By focusing on a technique, he could read its description. Following the listed steps and movements, he could naturally perform it.
The higher his mastery of the style, the faster and stronger the techniques would become.
That seemed to be the system.
Currently, Kazuma had access to one technique from Rishin-ryū: Jōdan Twin Strike.
From Shintō-ryū, he had two: Kesa-giri and Gatotsu.
Honestly, Kazuma had never encountered these terms in his previous Shintō-ryū training. Kesa-giri was occasionally mentioned by Hasegawa-senpai, but only as a generic term for diagonal cuts—named because the angle resembled the drape of a Buddhist monk's stole.
Intrigued, Kazuma decided to test all three techniques. He carefully memorized their preparatory stances and attack directions.
Ending his meditation, he picked up his bamboo sword, stood, and assumed a ready stance.
Let's start with the coolest-sounding one—Gatotsu.
It looked like a thrusting move.
In close-quarters combat, nothing was scarier than an opponent who could close the gap instantly.
Kazuma inhaled deeply, then channeled his strength according to the technique's instructions—
In the next moment, his entire body moved in perfect sync. Lunging forward, he unleashed a thrust with explosive force.
The motion was seamless—his mind barely kept pace with his body.
Kazuma glanced back at his meditation cushion to gauge the distance he'd covered.
About three meters in an instant—not bad. Including the sword's reach, this move could hit an opponent four meters away. A solid gap-closer.
He was quite satisfied. In real-world swordsmanship, pulling off such a move was no small feat.
Just as he was about to try the other techniques, he noticed Chiyoko standing at the dojo entrance.
Their eyes met, and Chiyoko exclaimed, "Bro, when did you get so good?!"
Kazuma shrugged. "I've always been better than you, haven't I?"
"That's not what I mean! Of course I know you're better than me! But if you'd had this move last year, you wouldn't have lost to Mori Sōjirō from Ichikō at the prefectural tournament! You could've just lunged and hit his men!"
In kendo, a strike to the opponent's headguard—men—scores the most points.
Kazuma scratched his head. "I didn't know this move back then."
That was the truth.
After all, he hadn't transmigrated yet.
He'd expected Chiyoko to press him further, but she didn't seem concerned about how he'd "learned" the technique.
"Bro, teach me!" she said eagerly, running off to grab her gear and bamboo sword. "You have to teach me! Next year's my last chance to enter the prefectural tournament! I really want to make it to nationals!"
As the dojo's daughter, Chiyoko had naturally joined her school's kendo club.
It was likely her kendo talent that had earned her a special admission to Etsukawa Girls' Middle School.
Private schools in Japan were absurdly expensive, and the Kiryu family couldn't afford the tuition. Chiyoko attended thanks to a kendo scholarship and special admissions.
Unfortunately, despite her efforts, she hadn't yet shone in competition. Etsukawa Girls' kendo team had failed to advance past the prefectural level for two years running.
As team captain since her second year, Chiyoko must have felt frustrated.
This was her final year. No doubt she wanted to lead her underclassmen to nationals.
Kazuma didn't mind teaching her—but he wasn't sure he could.
After all, he hadn't "mastered" the move himself. He was simply following preset instructions, and his body moved almost automatically.
To teach Chiyoko, he'd first need to mentally break down the move and figure out exactly how his body was executing it.
While Chiyoko fetched her equipment, Kazuma practiced Gatotsu a few more times.
Thankfully, the technique wasn't too complex. The key lay in the fast forward step combined with a coordinated thrust.
After several repetitions, he got a good feel for it. Just then, Chiyoko returned with her gear.
"Ready, Bro!" Chiyoko assumed a middle guard stance, gripping her bamboo sword.
Kazuma was about to start explaining when he remembered something. He scolded her sternly, "Warm up first! If you sprain something, you can forget about the prefectural tournament!"
"Oh, right!" Chiyoko stuck out her tongue, set down her sword, and began warming up.
**
The next morning, Kazuma was woken by his alarm. Rubbing his eyes, he stumbled into the dining room.
Chiyoko was already dressed in her school uniform, apron on, bustling at the stove.
"You're up early," Kazuma remarked.
"You're the one who's late!" Chiyoko shot back energetically, though dark circles were visible under her eyes.
She'd practiced Gatotsu late into the night. Though the move seemed simple, achieving Kazuma's level of fluidity wasn't easy.
Watching her struggle had given Kazuma a deep appreciation for just how powerful his "cheat" really was.
Looks like as long as I study a style, I can instantly learn and perform its techniques. I wonder if I trained in Yagyū Shinkage-ryū, could I master something like Muto-dori?
Muto-dori—the famed "empty-handed blade capture" technique of Yagyū Shinkage-ryū.
Chiyoko placed a plate of eggs on the table. "No miso soup today, so you'll just have to make do."
Kazuma nodded. No complaints there—he didn't like miso soup anyway.
He also couldn't quite understand why Japanese people ate plain white rice for breakfast.
As a Cantonese, breakfast should be rice noodles, pork offal soup, youtiao, sticky rice dumplings—or at least congee.
Staring at the heaping bowl of dry rice Chiyoko served him, Kazuma sighed inwardly.
Cultural differences... guess I'll just adapt.
Just as he picked up his chopsticks, Chiyoko declared excitedly, "Today I'm going to teach the move you showed me to my juniors! If Tōun-chan and Andō-chan can learn it, we'll be unstoppable in team matches! Our center and vice-captain are already strong, and as captain, I can crush most schools!"
Kazuma replied offhandedly, "And yet last year, you didn't make it to nationals."
Chiyoko immediately deflated.
Seeing her hang her head over her rice, Kazuma felt a pang of guilt. I shouldn't have rubbed salt in the wound...
He quickly added, "When you get back today, I'll teach you another move."
"Really?!" Chiyoko's eyes lit up.
Kazuma nodded. "Really. So don't stay too late at club practice."
"Okay!" Chiyoko beamed and dug into her rice with renewed vigor.
Kazuma still had two other techniques—teaching one to cheer her up was no problem.
And considering the current situation, the more skills she had, the better for self-defense.
After all, the yakuza had said they'd be "visiting often."
Maybe selling the dojo would be for the best...
With the money, I could invest. Japan's bubble economy is about to take off. By '81, the market will be much harder to enter...
Lost in thought, Kazuma finished breakfast. As soon as he set down his bowl, Chiyoko swooped in and whisked the dishes away.
After tossing them into the sink, she pulled off her apron and dashed to the entryway.
"Bro, I brought your sword and schoolbag to the front! Let's go!" she called.
Kazuma stood and walked over.
Chiyoko was incredibly capable. It was impossible not to like a sister like her. Which also made it harder for him to go against her wishes and sell the dojo.
At the door, seeing Chiyoko already laced up and waiting, Kazuma suddenly asked, "Aren't you going to use some concealer for those dark circles?"
"What are you talking about? It'd just melt off once I start sweating! Now hurry up—we'll be late for morning practice!"
Classes in Japan started later than in China—even in the cram-school-driven '80s. A typical Japanese school's first period began well after Chinese schools had already finished half a morning.
Students arriving before 8 AM were usually there for club activities.
It was now 7:15. By Chinese standards, they'd be late—but in Japan, it was still time to stroll leisurely to school—or even have a little morning date.
Kazuma calmly put on his shoes. But the impatient Chiyoko had already flung open the front door.
A gust of wind swept in—and with it, a sharp scent of blood.
Chiyoko's scream pierced Kazuma's ears.
Outside, hanging from the roof tile above the doorway, was a noose suspending a dead rooster. Its belly had been slit open, innards dangling, blood still dripping.
Even Kazuma was momentarily stunned. A more timid person might have thought they'd encountered a ghost.
Chiyoko stumbled backward in terror, tripping over her own shoes and falling.
Fortunately, Kazuma caught her just in time.
She spun around and clung to his uniform, burying her face in his chest.
At fourteen, Chiyoko was already maturing—and in this moment, Kazuma couldn't help but feel her youthful curves.
But there was no time to dwell on that. The grotesque display at the door had his danger instincts screaming.
The yakuza are already starting...!
A mocking voice reached his ears.
The broad-faced, bald yakuza from yesterday strolled up with two sharply dressed henchmen.
"My, what a unique teru teru bōzu," the bald man sneered, eyeing the hanging rooster. "But such a stench! It might upset the neighbors, you know. I do hope Mr. Kiryu will be more considerate in the future."
(End of Chapter)