Within the arena.
Sōichirō suppressed the churning in his chest. Looking at the youth not far away—standing proudly amid the wind and snow, one hand holding a tachi reversed at his side, the other resting a heavy halberd upon his shoulder, battle intent blazing in his eyes as though he knew not what fatigue was—he slowly exhaled a breath of white vapor and tightened his grip once more on the dark iron staff in his hand.
"President, are you alright?" Isshin set down the halberd from his shoulder and drove it heavily into the snow, producing a dull thud.
This ferocious and savage halberd was precisely the product of his advancement to [Sword Master] and his comprehension of the principles of weapon combat.
Since the Entry clearly indicated that mastering other weapons could also yield twice the result with half the effort, he had no reason not to make use of it. Who knew—perhaps in the future it might even generate some new Entries.
For example, something like Weapon Master, or maybe even a Battle Saint.
Moreover, the "Isshin" crowned with the title of Sword Saint had originally displayed a combat aesthetic unbound by any single weapon. Of the myriad weapons, all could be wielded at will—he not only used a sword, he also used a spear.
And he even used a "gun"!
Thus, he entrusted City Lord Takeda with mobilizing skilled craftsmen to forge this halberd. Such a weapon was both a heavy hammer of strength and an extension of technique, combining thrusting, slashing, hooking, pecking, smashing, and cleaving into a single armament—the weapon most capable of fully unleashing the power of his formidable physique.
The primary material of this halberd was a mineral native to the Land of Iron known as black heavy iron.
This mineral's conductivity to chakra could only be considered average, but it possessed two exceptionally prominent traits: extreme weight and unmatched hardness.
The iron staff that had accompanied Sōichirō for many years had likewise been forged primarily from this rare black heavy iron.
"Hmph. I'm not so old that I need a brat like you worrying about me!" Sōichirō snorted coldly, holding the iron staff horizontally before him, his gaze sharp as a blade. "As for you—causing trouble everywhere these past few months—it seems your combat skills truly haven't fallen behind. But if you think that with just this bit of progress you can act recklessly, you're still far from it!"
Before his words had even faded, the snow beneath his feet exploded with a thunderous blast. His burly figure swept up a wave of snow as the iron staff was no longer a mere smash or sweep—it multiplied into layers upon layers of staff shadows, like a raging storm, like mountains crashing down, fusing strength and technique together as it shrouded Isshin's vital points!
The blazing light in Isshin's eyes intensified. Rather than alarm, joy surged within him, and he burst into hearty laughter.
"Excellent—come!"
He raised the tachi in his left hand in a sudden, fluid motion—parrying, deflecting, and teasing aside the strikes, precisely cutting into the gaps between the staff shadows to dissolve the heavy onslaught; while the halberd in his right hand was like a giant python bursting from its lair—at times bracing hard with the shaft, at times letting the crescent blade of the halberd tear and bite, its power fierce and tyrannical as it crashed head-on against the sky-filling staff shadows!
Clang! Clang! Clang! Boom!
Even denser, more violent collision sounds erupted across the wind-swept snowy wilderness. Wherever the two fought, snow and slush sprayed up, surging force scattered in all directions, as though an invisible, gigantic meat grinder were churning that patch of ground into utter chaos.
On the hillside, Yamagami Motoya watched, his mind shaken to the core, nearly forgetting to breathe.
What the two combatants displayed was a kind of pure, violent strength he had never even imagined!
A strength that did not rely on bizarre genjutsu or dazzling ninjutsu, but was rooted in a body tempered through countless hammerings, peerless skill, and a will that drove straight forward without retreat!
In the arena, after another head-on clash for more than ten rounds, Sōichirō was once again rocked by the brutal force erupting from that heavy halberd. His chest churned, and he slid backward.
Only with difficulty did he steady himself. Seeing the battlefire in the youth's eyes burn even hotter—seemingly without the slightest hint of fatigue—and that he was about to press in again, he hurriedly drove his iron staff into the snow and raised a hand, shouting: "Stop, stop!"
"No more! That's enough for today!"
Hearing this, Isshin halted his offense at once. The halberd on his shoulder stood steady. There was a trace of regret on his face, yet his breath remained long and even. "President is satisfied already?"
"Satisfied?" Sōichirō snorted irritably, shaking his slightly numb arm. "If we keep going, these old bones of mine are going to fall apart. You brat are simply a monster… Alright. Back to the city!"
His words carried seventy percent helplessness, and thirty percent genuine amazement.
Sōichirō had been gifted since childhood and was famed for divine strength. With the physique he possessed and that dark heavy iron staff, he had subdued who knew how many opponents.
Since he first made his name, in this arena of pure strength contests, he had rarely met a true match. Long ago he had grown accustomed to a fighting style of breaking skill with force—overpowering technique through sheer strength.
But this youth named Isshin before him was an out-and-out anomaly. When they first met, the other's strength had already been terrifying, yet at least he could still match him—clashing head-on for dozens of rounds without falling into a disadvantage.
Now, in merely a few short months, after only a dozen or so rounds he could no longer hold out; later he was even being suppressed and beaten.
Isshin did not pester him. He gave a frank smile. "Then we'll do as President says."
He hoisted the halberd back onto his shoulder, turned around, and prepared to leave with Sōichirō.
However, just as he turned around, he seemed, as if by accident, to glance toward a certain snow-covered slope off to the side and behind him.
On that slope, Yamagami Motoya—utterly focused—instinctively tensed all over, as though pricked by the tip of an icy needle.
But when he steadied himself and looked again, Isshin had already withdrawn his gaze and was walking shoulder to shoulder with Sōichirō, striding toward Sekikōjō. Their figures soon vanished into the vast wind and snow.
"Was it just my imagination…?" Motoya felt uncertain and uneasy, yet a stronger emotion quickly drowned out that trace of doubt.
He slowly rose from behind the snowbank, brushed the accumulated snow from his body, and fixed his gaze on the direction where the two had disappeared—especially on the tall back carrying the halberd.
Inside his chest, the heart that had been hammered again and again by national hatred, family vengeance, and the cold weight of reality—almost to the point of numbness—was now pounding with an intensity it had never known before.
Every moment of that duel just now was like a red-hot brand, searing itself deep into his mind.
The thunderous clash of metal, the force that shattered snow and split the ground—above all, the pure strength and battle-mad ferocity displayed by that tall youth, like a humanoid beast!
That kind of power… that domineering, unadulterated strength!
"So this… is the power of a samurai?"
He muttered to himself, his voice hoarse.
Was this not exactly what he needed? Was it not the blade capable of cutting through the hypocritical mask of the Holy Church, of demanding blood repayment from the traitors who stood high above?
He must take him as his master! He had to take him as his master!
No matter the cost, he would learn that extraordinary skill from the shihan named Isshin!
His resolve, like steel tempered in fire, grew cold and hard amid the sweeping wind and snow.
Motoya suddenly stood fully upright from behind the snowbank. Ignoring the numbness in his limbs from lying prone for so long, he brushed off the nearly frozen snow clinging to him. After checking the blade at his waist and the firearm tucked inside his coat, he pulled his hood lower against the cold, covering most of his face and revealing only a pair of eyes burning with obsession.
Then he set off, no longer concealing himself, and walked steadfastly through ankle-deep snow toward the city that would decide his future fate.
The wind and snow grew fiercer, as if trying to bar this youth, who carried a blazing fire of vengeance in his heart, from approaching.
Yet against the endless white, his back appeared all the more stubborn and distinct.
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