Chapter 11 : The Secret Art
The evening air hung heavy over the Visalla estate, a mix of freshly watered grass and the faint aroma of cigar smoke drifting from the veranda. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain murmured softly, but its gentle rhythm did little to ease the tension curling through Michael's mind.
He walked slowly along the gravel path toward the garden, his steps deliberate, the crunch beneath his shoes grounding him after the storm of the past hours. The meeting with the minister had gone as expected—smooth on the surface, yet filled with unspoken weight. The American boy had been handed over in exchange for a favor, a calculated move. But the look on the minister's face as they shook hands… there had been something there. Gratitude, yes. Caution, definitely.
Michael had played his part well. Still, he knew such transactions always carried a ripple effect. Somewhere, that boy would tell a story. Somewhere, the threads of today's bargain would begin weaving into something larger.
The path took him past the rose beds—Lucien's wife's pride and joy—where two of the estate guards stood at a respectful distance. They nodded as he passed, but Michael barely acknowledged them, his thoughts still turning over the details of the day.
A voice cut through the quiet.
"You look like you're carrying half the city's problems on your back."
Michael turned to see Ray leaning against the stone balustrade near the fountain, hands in his pockets, posture easy but eyes sharp. He'd been waiting.
"Half?" Michael allowed a small smirk. "You're being generous."
Ray gestured to the empty bench beside him. "Sit. I'm not going to ask what happened in there… yet. But you need to breathe."
Michael sat, the cold of the stone bench seeping through his suit trousers. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence between them both comfortable and loaded.
Ray broke it first. "So. The American's gone."
"Delivered," Michael corrected, his voice even. "And in return, the minister owes us a favor he can't refuse."
Ray raised an eyebrow. "That kind of favor?"
"That kind of favor," Michael confirmed. He didn't elaborate—Ray didn't need the details to understand.
For a while, they just listened to the fountain. Michael noticed Ray glancing toward the east wing of the estate—the direction of the Dukaan. The underground prison was buried beneath that wing, unseen but never truly out of mind.
"I don't like how quick it all happened," Ray admitted quietly. "Canteen incident, then this meeting, and now he's gone. Feels… unfinished."
Michael tilted his head, studying him. "Unfinished how?"
Ray hesitated, then shrugged. "I don't know. People like him… they don't just vanish. Someone's going to come looking. And when they do, it's never just them."
Michael didn't respond immediately. He knew Ray was right. But he also knew this was the price of playing at the level the Visallas played. A clean cut today could mean a blood trail tomorrow. Micheal looks over his watch ,"its my training time, Need to go" Micheal Groans.
Micheal gets up and head towards visalla training hall.
The door to the training hall creaked softly as Michael pushed it open.
The air inside was different—cooler than the corridors outside, carrying the faint metallic tang of oiled steel and polished wood. His eyes adjusted to the low, golden light from wall sconces, and the scene before him took shape.
In the center of the room, sitting cross-legged on a woven mat, was a man with a lean, wiry frame, methodically running a soft cloth along the length of a katana. Every movement was deliberate, almost ceremonial. The blade caught the light, its edge glinting with a cold, perfect sharpness. Around him, the walls were lined with racks upon racks of weapons—gleaming longswords, curved sabers, polished spears, heavy shields, slim daggers, even archaic polearms whose purposes seemed more suited for history books than the modern day.
"Hey, Master, I'm here," Michael called out, stepping inside.
The man didn't look up immediately. When he finally did, a faint smirk played at the corner of his mouth. His name was Reo—a senior board member of the Visalla organization, a man whose authority could match most council heads in the right setting, and Michael's personal master in the ancient Visalla sword art.
"You're late," Reo said flatly, placing the katana back on its stand. "I almost died of boredom."
Michael exhaled sharply through his nose. "I was coming. Just had to deal with a matter first."
Reo tilted his head, as if weighing whether the excuse was worth hearing in detail. "Hmm. Fine. Change to your training clothes. Quickly. Then pick up your wooden sword."
Michael sighed with the resignation of a man who knew there was no winning that argument. "Okay, Master."
He moved across the room to a side door that led to the changing area. The changing room was small, lined with wooden lockers and smelling faintly of sweat and cedar from the built-in racks. Michael loosened his tie, shrugged off his jacket, and began the practiced routine of swapping his tailored suit for the crisp white training uniform—the sleeves loose enough for mobility, the belt tied in a knot that sat perfectly on his hip.
When he returned to the training hall, Reo was standing now, rolling his shoulders and gripping his own wooden sword with an ease that spoke of decades of training.
Michael headed toward the long rack where practice swords were neatly stacked. His eyes scanned over them, comparing length, balance, even the smoothness of the wood.
From across the hall, Reo's voice carried over.
"Just pick any of them. They're all the same, idiot."
Michael didn't even look up. "Just let me do my thing."
He reached for one, lifted it high to check its weight against the pull of gravity, then gave it a few slow swings to feel the balance.
"Perfect," he said, a small note of satisfaction in his voice.
He walked toward Reo, who was already in stance, wooden sword in hand.
"Are you ready?" Reo asked.
"Yes, Master."
"Then come at me."
Michael dashed forward, his first strike cutting diagonally toward Reo's right shoulder. With a single, fluid motion, Reo blocked it as if swatting away an insect.
Michael pivoted and slashed from the opposite diagonal, faster this time. Again, Reo deflected it effortlessly, his stance never breaking.
They moved like this for several exchanges—Michael attacking with increasing intensity, Reo parrying every strike with a calm precision that only made Michael's frustration grow.
Then Reo's tone shifted. "Here I come."
In one smooth step, Reo advanced, his sword slicing toward Michael with force. Michael caught the blow on his own wooden blade, but the impact pushed him back several paces.
Reo pressed forward, and his movements changed. They became sharper, more deliberate—every slash, thrust, and turn flowing seamlessly into the next. This was the Secret Art of the Sword of Visalla—a fusion of multiple sword disciplines into a single, overwhelming technique.
Michael braced himself, tightening his grip, but he could feel it—Reo's strikes were heavier, faster, carrying an inevitability to them. One final slash landed against his wooden blade with a crack, splintering it in two.
Michael stumbled back, his knees hitting the mat as the broken weapon fell from his hands.
Reo stepped forward, crouching down so they were at eye level. "Michael, do you know why we still train with swords in this era, despite having advanced weapons?"
Michael rubbed his wrist, breathing hard. "I don't know. My father said it's a powerful technique I have to learn."
Reo's gaze hardened. "Do you know the founder of Visalla? In his time, there were no guns. People fought with blades. He smuggled himself into Japan after hearing of their sword art's unmatched strength. He stayed there for ten years, learning the samurai style. When he returned, he created this—our secret art. What I showed you today is only a fraction of it."
Michael listened, his breathing slowing.
"This is not just about protecting the founder's legacy," Reo continued. "It's a way to succeed."
Michael blinked. "Succeed?"
"Yes," Reo said firmly. "Only the head, Silas, and I have mastered it. Mastering this will make you stronger—and strengthen your political position in Visalla."
Reo straightened. "Now. Get up. Start your swing training."
Michael groaned. "Oh, come on, let me rest a bit."
Reo's wooden sword smacked his shoulder with a sharp thwack. "Get up. Now."
They were still mid-argument when Michael's phone buzzed. He pulled it from his belt and glanced at the screen—a reminder to meet the CEO of ANG Corporation.
"Master, I have to go. Business work."
Reo's eyes narrowed. "Again business?"
"It's family business work," Michael replied, already walking toward the changing room.
Reo crossed his arms. "Fine. And can you write my resignation letter as your master?"
Michael stopped mid-step. "What? You can't resign."
"I'm tired of your inconsistency."
Michael shook his head, pushing open the changing room door. "I promise I'll do my training tomorrow."
"You bastard," Reo muttered under his breath.
Minutes later, Michael emerged in his suit, hair slightly damp from splashing his face at the sink. He strode through the estate corridors and out to the garage, where the drivers were lounging in the corner, chatting over tea.
"Hey!" Michael's voice cut through the idle conversation. "Ready my car. We need to leave."
One driver jumped up. "I'm sorry, sir. The butler didn't inform me you were leaving, or I would have prepared the car earlier."
"Don't worry. I didn't tell him. Just get the car—we need to move now."
"Of course, sir."
Within minutes, the sleek black sedan rolled up to the entrance. Michael slid into the back seat, settling into the leather upholstery.
"Head toward the ANG Corporation building," he ordered.
"Yes, sir."
The engine came to life, and the car pulled away from the Visalla estate gates, the high walls slipping from view as the city began to rise ahead.