"So, you brat want to become my disciple?"
Isshin folded his arms and, with interest, sized up the boy kneeling on the ground. The same carefree, somewhat heartless grin still hung on his face.
After following the President, Yagyū Sōichirō, back to the city, he had shamelessly ignored the increasingly dark, pot-bottom expression on the president's face and stubbornly lingered at the dojo of the Seishin Meichi-ryū to freeload a sumptuous lunch. Only after eating his fill did he saunter back home in satisfaction.
He had not expected that, upon arriving at his doorstep, he would find someone already waiting for him for quite some time.
It was the fellow who had hidden on the hillside outside the city during the wind and snow, secretly watching him spar with the president.
The brat was straightforward. The moment they met, he dropped to his knees with a thud, kneeling firmly, and immediately asked to be accepted as a disciple.
"Yes! I respectfully ask Isshin-shihan to accept me as a disciple and teach me swordsmanship!" Motoya knocked his head to the ground again, his voice carrying from the icy stone slabs.
"Tsk, tsk." Isshin shook his head and smacked his lips. "You brat—there's something hooked in your eyes. They're full of things. Your face is practically screaming 'deep hatred and bitter enmity.' One look and it's obvious you're carrying a blood-deep vendetta. Maybe there's even a 'family destroyed, home ruined' melodrama mixed in. Ahh! Disciples like that are the most troublesome—hard to teach, and endless trouble afterward."
His words were blunt to the point of harshness, like a cold dagger that tore open the calm façade Motoya had been struggling to maintain.
Motoya's body trembled. He lowered his head even further, his lips pressed so tightly they turned pale. The flame of hope that had just ignited in his heart felt as though a basin of icy water had been poured over it.
Yet just as he thought he would be flatly rejected, Isshin's voice sounded again: "I'll ask you this—are you learning the sword for revenge?"
Motoya abruptly raised his head and met Isshin's still languid gaze. Frankly—almost with a reckless, nothing-to-lose resolve—he answered: "To be honest, shihan, I am indeed learning the sword for revenge! A blood-deep hatred that cannot be shared beneath the same sky!"
He paused for a moment, drew in a breath, and continued: "But it's not only for revenge. It is also so that the tragedy that befell me will not easily descend upon others. I do not want to see more people reduced to the same state I was—family destroyed, no one to turn to for help!"
Isshin said nothing, merely watching him quietly. Motoya met his gaze without retreating, though his heart pounded like a drum and cold sweat had already soaked his back.
"First, tell me your story."
Hearing this, Motoya did not dare to delay. He quickly gathered his thoughts and began to speak in as clear a voice as he could: "Shihan, my name is Yamagami Motoya. I was born in the Land of Hot Water…"
He started from the hot-spring inn his family once ran, then spoke of the shadow of war, his father's departure, his mother's descent, the Holy God Church's bewitchment, the family fortune being squandered, his elder brother's tragedy—until, at the very end… his younger sister being sent off to the other world.
Huh?
Why does this story sound so familiar?
As Isshin listened, it felt oddly familiar to him, as if he had heard it in a previous life. But he did not dwell on it, chalking it up to the notion that tragedies under heaven are largely alike.
"So I came to the Land of Iron." Motoya finished his account, lowered his head again, and waited for judgment.
"All right." Isshin finally spoke, his tone as casual as deciding what to eat tonight. "Then you can learn under me for now. But let me make this ugly part clear first: I can teach, but how much you can learn—whether you can swallow this hardship—depends on your own ability. If one day you feel you can't do it, or I feel you can't do it, you can leave at any time."
It just so happened that after he had been promoted to chūnin and Sword Master, the description of his profession entries mentioned that his "efficiency in guiding others regarding swordsman (shinobi) aptitude" would receive a slight increase.
His main body was currently in Konohagakure, busy developing Fire Release nin-taijutsu and also having to deal with the future ninja world war, so he had no chance to test that effect.
Isshin's clone was idle anyway. Taking in a disciple to test the waters and see what this "slight increase" was really worth seemed not bad.
What if it could even generate some kind of education-related entry?
Even if such entries could not directly raise his strength, they could let him enlighten disciples with half the effort and twice the results.
Given enough time, a group of true experts would naturally gather under him, becoming his solid wings and foundation.
He also knew that fame could be amplified through one's followers and disciples: when a disciple rose to prominence with exquisite swordsmanship, people would firmly believe that the master's sword path was even stronger; when a disciple cowed a region through overwhelming strength, people would likewise think the master who taught him was even more formidable.
Every bit of achievement from his disciples—every gasp of astonishment and word of praise they earned—would be like a hundred rivers flowing into the sea, converging into an even more vast flood of recognition, lifting him to unimaginable heights.
"Greetings, Shisho!" Motoya was overjoyed. He hurriedly kowtowed.
"All right, all right—get up and speak."
"Thank you, Shisho!" Motoya rose as instructed, his face unable to suppress his excitement and gratitude.
He suddenly remembered something and hurriedly turned to rummage through his worn travel pack, fumbling as if trying to find some money or anything else he could barely manage to present as a gift for becoming a disciple.
"That's enough. Stop digging." Isshin glanced at his embarrassed searching and spoke indifferently, originally intending to say, I'm not lacking your few coppers.
But his gaze happened to sweep across the section of rough yet well-polished metal barrel protruding from a gap in the bundle.
His words paused, and his eyes brightened slightly.
"Wait!" He changed his tone and pointed at the barrel. "Let me see that gun of yours."
As Isshin—a great Sword Saint—how could he not have a gun?
A gun!
It, too, was an extension of the sword path—one of the "instruments" worthy of study!
"A gun?"
Motoya froze for a moment, then realized his shisho was referring to his matchlock.
He immediately stopped rummaging and carefully lifted out the matchlock with both hands. Its structure was somewhat crude, yet every component had been cleaned spotlessly. He respectfully offered it forward, explaining with a trace of unease: "Shisho, this is… something I tinkered with during spare moments while on duty—collecting parts and assembling and modifying it myself. It's nothing more than some unpresentable trickery. From now on, I will cultivate diligently and focus wholeheartedly on the sword path. I won't let myself be distracted by these things again…"
"Unpresentable trickery?" Isshin took the matchlock; it felt heavy in his hands. With interest, he examined the barrel and firing mechanism. Hearing this, he shook his head and interrupted him. "Motoya, this is not something unfit to be seen."
He lifted his head and looked at Motoya, whose face still carried confusion and unease, and said seriously, "Our Ashina-ryū swordsmanship values constantly drawing upon the strengths of a hundred schools and gathering the techniques of a thousand paths. Though we bear the name of the sword, our road is by no means confined to the single form of the sword."
He weighed the matchlock in his hand, as if considering how best to use it. "As long as it can secure victory in battle, effectively bring down an opponent, and protect what one wishes to protect… then whether it is a longsword, a short blade, a spear, a bow, or this matchlock in your hand that spits fire and metal—even explosive tags and cannons—they can be, and should be, weapons for us to use."
"Remember this, Motoya. The precepts of our Ashina-ryū can be summed up in three words—adapt to circumstances!"
"The essence is also three words—practicality above all! And the ultimate goal we pursue…"
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