The sword-mad are drawn to their own kind.
It is simply another way of saying that the strong recognize the strong.
In hindsight, it is a truly obvious statement.
I have spilled rivers of blood to become strong, and those who could truly be called 'powerful' always shared certain unmistakable traits.
The spacing of the blade, speed, power, footwork, momentum, Spiritual Pressure, a keenness that never misses a gap, the instantaneous judgment to thrust into an unexpected opening—and so much more.
However, I felt absolutely nothing from the man before me.
All that emanated from him was a sense of lethargy and languor, as if he were pressed flat against the floor.
A pile of cold ash.
That was the impression I received looking at him.
When entering a dojo, the first thing one must do is offer a greeting. Even outside a dojo, a greeting is only proper when two people meet for the first time.
Yet, far from greeting him, I entered while openly stroking the hilt of my sword.
I did not even offer a nod, scanning the interior of the dojo with a cold gaze.
To anyone running a dojo, this was a provocation—a blatant challenge, an invitation to a raid.
Yet the man showed no reaction to such an insult, despite being the master of this hall.
"…."
I had harbored a modicum of expectation since this was a dojo I hadn't seen before, but it seems there is only disappointment to be found.
He is not even worth drawing for.
A wasted journey.
Just as I thought that, I wondered if a man running a dojo could at least measure the interval of a blade. I placed my hand on the hilt and used my thumb to slightly nudge the tsuba upward.
With a faint click, the color drained from the world. Only the man and I remained in a pitch-black void.
How many steps to advance? When should I draw to cut? When should I swing to reach the neck? When should I thrust to kill?
Since I had performed these actions thousands, tens of thousands of times, this sequence of calculations took but a fraction of a second.
And then, I could not help but feel a flicker of surprise.
'I... cannot grasp the interval...?'
Throughout hundreds of years of life, crossing the line of death thousands of times and enduring tens of thousands of battles, this was the first time I had ever experienced such a thing.
Niten Ichi-ryu, Shinkage-ryu, Nen-ryu, Iaido—I had met countless opponents whose spacing was difficult to read, but never one whose interval was entirely ungraspable.
In this moment, my heart, which beat so fiercely it felt as if it might explode, sang with the feeling of being 'alive' for the first time.
The hand resting on the hilt screamed at me to draw this instant.
So, I drew.
The interval is ungraspable? I don't know if I can kill him?
Since when did I care about such things?
Indeed. It was always thus.
'I will know once I cut him.'
Once my direction was set, there was no need for further hesitation.
I drew the sword as if throwing the scabbard behind me and glided toward the man, swinging my blade.
A single stroke aimed precisely at his throat.
Yet, the man did not block, nor did he dodge. He merely watched the descending blade with a hollow stare.
...He was watching it?
A chill ran down my spine, but I did not stop the sword.
One cannot expect perfection from the first strike; if I failed to cut him now, I would simply do so with the next move.
Thud!
"…!!?"
I had expected him to dodge. I had even expected him to draw his own sword to respond.
But he blocked? At this range, he stopped my blade with nothing but his thumb and forefinger? And he did so without even looking, while lying sideways on the floor?
While those thoughts swirled, the man who caught my sword let out a heavy sigh and turned toward me.
His eyes held an unmistakable, deep-seated boredom.
"You've been reeking of bloodlust and the intent to kill since before you even stepped inside, and now you draw your steel without even a greeting? The world really has gone to shit, hasn't it?"
"…My apologies. I was simply curious to see if I could cut you."
"Crazy bitch. You say such terrifying things with such a straight face. Well, I guess no one who smells of blood like you do can ever truly be sane."
He spat out coarse insults, but I didn't feel particularly offended.
Half the scoundrels who carry swords use their mouths like rags anyway.
"So, now that you've tried cutting, how was it?"
"I'm not quite sure yet."
"Is that so? Then try some more."
The man spoke and released my blade.
There was no need to ask what he intended; letting go of the blade was synonymous with telling me to try and cut him again.
I might have said, 'Surely you don't mean to face me in that posture,' but I kept my silence.
My opponent was overwhelmingly stronger than me. The weak have no right to demand anything of the strong.
Therefore, if I desire something, I must seize it with my own strength, with my own hands.
I have lived that way until now, and I shall do so again.
"Unohana Yachiru. Here I come."
Since the first move was blocked, I formally offered my name and a greeting before swinging my sword again.
There were no specialized techniques for attacking an opponent lying on the floor, so I repeated the basic of basics—horizontal cuts, vertical slashes, and thrusts.
But no matter how many times I swung, the blade would not reach him.
No, it did reach.
If you count the sword being caught between his thumb and forefinger as reaching him.
"…."
At first, it was enjoyable.
An opponent had appeared who would not die, no matter how many times I swung or slashed.
But after a hundred strikes, that joy turned into displeasure.
And after a thousand strikes, that displeasure turned into desperation.
Still, I did not stop.
I felt that if I stopped here, I would become neither one thing nor another.
I continued to swing my sword until my breath grew ragged.
Yet, even then, the man did not stand up even once.
He simply lay there with his back turned to me, catching every single strike with just two fingers.
Without launching a single attack, he was tearing my heart to shreds.
'It's impossible.'
Feeling the tip of my blade tremble, I immediately retreated and caught my breath.
Only then did the man turn toward me and speak.
"Is that it?"
"…."
I could find no words to answer him.
Is that it? No, there is still much I can do. If only that man would stand up, with every style and technique I possess...
'…Can I even cut him?'
I had no confidence.
Even if I poured everything I had into it, I lacked the certainty that I could even touch him.
When I realized it, the hand holding the sword was shaking.
It was a different sensation than before. Joy? Anticipation? No, it was nothing like that.
An overwhelming sense of helplessness and despair—the first I had ever felt in my life—crushed down on me.
While I stood there, unable to speak, the man slowly stood up from the floor.
When I reflexively flinched, the man let out a small chuckle.
It wasn't mockery. It was the kind of smile a cousin might give to a toddler performing a little dance.
"I haven't lived your life, so I won't lecture you, but... is it really fun living like that?"
"What do you mean by that…?"
"All you do is go around fighting, killing, and killing again. You're so soaked in the scent of blood that it probably won't ever wash off… just what kind of fun are you having?"
For a moment, I thought he was insulting me, but looking at his face, I realized I was mistaken.
The man was genuinely curious. He wanted to know what enjoyment there was in such a life.
Joy.
The enjoyment I felt was always found within the fight.
Yes, for me, joy was synonymous with battle.
Battle was my life, and battle was my everything.
The thrill of standing precariously on the boundary between life and death.
The exhilaration felt when crossing blades in a test of strength, and the sensation of slicing through flesh and bone.
"What remains after all those fights?"
The hollow emptiness and futility born after killing those I could finally call rivals with my own hands...
And at the end, only the ash-like boredom that remains.
"…Nothing."
At my answer, the man gave a bitter smile and slowly walked toward me.
"Did you feel any pride after all those battles, thinking, 'Ah, I've become this strong'?"
I shook my head.
Strength was never my objective.
To begin with, there was no benefit in becoming stronger.
Being strong simply meant it became harder to find a worthy opponent.
"Then what about the fame and notoriety you earned after all those victories? Is that fun?"
Again, I shook my head.
Fame and notoriety only got in the way of the fight.
They only attracted worthless rabble that wasn't even worth swatting.
I never desired such things in the first place.
"Money? You must have destroyed so many dojos and taken so many lives; you surely gathered a great fortune. Did that bring you any satisfaction?"
"No."
Piles of gold, delicacies stretching to the horizon—they meant nothing to me.
Those things do not help in a fight.
On the stage of battle, the only thing you can place upon it is your own self.
What meaning could money possibly have there?
"Then what are you fighting for?"
"I…."
I fought to fight.
I killed to kill.
That was the entirety of my life.
"Yes. Looking back now, how was it? Was it a joyful life? What was the purpose of it?"
There was no meaning there, no purpose.
A fight is but a momentary flash, and once that flash fades, only a hollow victory remains.
If that is so, then what meaning is there in a life lived only for the sake of battle?
"…Nothing."
It was the same answer as before.
But the man smiled as if that was good enough, walked up to me, and took the sword from my hand.
For a swordsman to have their blade taken is to offer up their life, yet I did not resist. I simply let it go.
"Indeed. Just as you said, nothing remains. That is what a fight is. Or more accurately, that is what happens when the means becomes the end. So, is that wrong? No. In life, there may be mistakes, but there is nothing that is truly 'wrong.' Especially so if you are still alive."
Holding the sword with both hands, he raised it above his head and performed a simple vertical strike.
It was the most basic of basics, yet the weight of the man's entire life contained within it was anything but light.
At the stroke that felt as though it could bring down the heavens themselves, I reflexively gasped for air.
"If you don't know, then you can learn. If you've taken the wrong path, you can start walking again. So, stop living like a ghost, following the means as if they were the end. Establish a purpose and find something you actually want to do. Your life is still long."
"…Is it truly permissible for a killer like me... to do such a thing?"
"You are the master of your own life. Therefore, you are the one who must decide that answer. What is it that you want to do?"
The man spoke, then offered the hilt of the sword back to me.