Land of Iron — Isshin Dojo
Bang—!
A figure was sent flying backward, crashing heavily onto the wooden floor.
The impact echoed throughout the dojo.
For a moment, silence followed.
Then—
Groans.
All around the training hall, disciples lay sprawled across the ground, clutching their bruised limbs and gasping in pain. Not a single person remained standing.
At the center of the dojo stood Aoki Yoru.
He slowly retracted his wooden sword and rested it casually on his shoulder, his expression calm, almost indifferent. His gaze swept across the fallen disciples, lingering for only a moment before he spoke.
"So this is it?"
His tone was light, but the implication was heavy.
"Surely this isn't the full extent of the Isshin Dojo's strength."
The disciples on the ground clenched their teeth.
Their eyes burned with anger and humiliation as they glared at him, but none of them dared to stand up again.
They had already tried.
And failed.
Completely.
Creak—
The old sliding door at the back of the dojo slowly opened.
A short elderly man walked in, his hands clasped behind his back. His steps were steady, unhurried, and carried a quiet dignity.
He did not even glance at his fallen disciples.
Instead, his gaze went directly to Aoki Yoru.
A trace of surprise flickered across his face.
He had not expected the one who defeated his entire dojo to be someone so young.
"Master…"
The disciples struggled to speak, their voices filled with shame.
The old man raised a hand slightly.
"Stand up," he said calmly. "Lying there like that only makes us a laughingstock."
His tone carried no anger.
Only quiet authority.
Then, he turned fully toward Aoki Yoru.
A faint smile appeared on his face.
"To defeat all of my disciples so easily… young man, your talent in the Way of the Sword is something I have rarely seen in my lifetime."
He paused slightly.
"The only person who might compare… is General Mifune."
Aoki Yoru lowered the wooden sword from his shoulder.
Then, without hesitation, he pointed it directly at the old man.
"Please," he said simply, "instruct me."
The old man's smile deepened.
He slowly bent down and picked up a fallen wooden sword.
His posture shifted.
In an instant, the relaxed old man disappeared.
In his place stood a seasoned swordsman.
"I am Isshin," he said. "The master of this dojo."
He raised the wooden sword into a defensive stance.
"Attack me."
"Let me see your strength."
Aoki Yoru narrowed his eyes.
Something felt… different.
The old man was clearly standing right in front of him.
And yet—
It felt as if he was part of the surroundings themselves.
Like a stone.
Like still water.
No presence.
No openings.
Aoki Yoru's earlier indifference faded.
He tightened his grip on the wooden sword.
Slowly, he adjusted his stance.
Focused.
Silent.
Then—
He moved.
With a sharp stomp, his body shot forward like a released arrow.
His wooden sword cut through the air with a sharp whistle, aiming directly at Isshin's face.
This time—
There was no chakra.
No ninjutsu.
Only pure swordsmanship.
Clack—!
Wood met wood.
Isshin raised his sword horizontally.
Blocked.
Effortlessly.
He didn't move an inch.
Aoki Yoru's eyes sharpened.
He pivoted instantly.
A diagonal slash followed.
Then a horizontal cut.
Then a thrust.
Strike after strike poured out like a relentless storm.
The air vibrated with the force of his attacks.
But—
Every single strike was blocked.
Perfectly.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The sound of wood colliding echoed continuously through the dojo.
Each impact sent a numbing shock up Aoki Yoru's arms.
His wrists trembled slightly.
And yet—
Isshin remained unmoved.
His feet stayed rooted to the same spot.
His back remained straight.
His eyes calm.
Like a deep, unfathomable lake.
No matter how fierce the storm—
It could not disturb its surface.
Aoki Yoru suddenly leapt backward.
Creating distance.
He exhaled sharply.
His breathing had grown heavier.
Looking at the old man again, his expression had completely changed.
The earlier arrogance was gone.
Replaced with seriousness.
"The Ninja World…" he muttered softly, "truly is full of hidden masters."
The old man before him—
He could not see through him at all.
It was like facing a mountain.
Unshakable.
Immovable.
Aoki Yoru took a deep breath.
This time—
He focused completely.
Not just on attacking.
But on observing.
In the next instant, he dashed forward again.
His speed increased.
His attacks became faster.
Sharper.
But now—
His eyes were different.
They followed every movement of Isshin.
Every shift in stance.
Every breath.
Every subtle muscle movement.
Every change in center of gravity.
Nothing escaped his perception.
And as he fought—
He began to imitate.
His footing became steadier.
His breathing more even.
His movements more refined.
Even the angles of his strikes began to align instinctively with Isshin's defensive rhythm.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The clashes continued.
But something had changed.
Aoki Yoru's swordsmanship began to evolve.
The sharpness of his attacks lost its excess.
His movements became cleaner.
More efficient.
More controlled.
Yet—
No matter what he did—
He could not break through.
Isshin's defense remained absolute.
Isshin's expression gradually shifted.
From calm…
To surprised.
In such a short time—
This young man had begun to replicate his techniques.
Even if it was only the form—
Such learning ability was terrifying.
Finally—
Isshin moved.
With a slight step, he deflected Aoki Yoru's sword.
Then spoke.
"Young man… you have been watching my movements, my steps, my breathing… even my muscles."
He looked directly at him.
"But you forgot something."
"You forgot to look at your own heart."
Aoki Yoru froze.
His grip tightened unconsciously.
Isshin continued, his tone calm but firm:
"Your blade carries anxiety."
"It carries impatience."
"And imitation."
"That is why… you cannot break my defense."
Aoki Yoru's pupils shrank slightly.
In that moment—
He realized it.
His breathing…
Had already lost its rhythm.
His movements—
Were no longer natural.
He had been chasing victory.
Forcing progress.
Trying too hard.
Isshin lowered his sword slightly.
His tone softened.
"The sword is an extension of the hand."
"But the heart…"
"…is the soul of the sword."
"Do not let the blade control your heart."
"Let your heart guide the blade."
"If you can understand yourself…"
"…then the sword will follow naturally."
Silence fell.
Aoki Yoru stood still.
Sweat rolled down his forehead.
Then—
He slowly closed his eyes.
He stopped looking at Isshin.
Stopped thinking about techniques.
Stopped trying to imitate.
He focused inward.
On his breathing.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Again.
Again.
Gradually—
His chaotic rhythm stabilized.
His thoughts quieted.
His mind became clear.
After a long moment—
He opened his eyes.
Gone was the earlier impatience.
In its place—
Calm.
Clear.
Steady.
He lowered his sword.
Then bowed deeply.
"Thank you for your guidance, Senior."
"I have benefited greatly."
Isshin smiled.
"Heh… I only gave a small hint."
"Your understanding comes from your own ability."
He looked at Aoki Yoru with genuine appreciation.
"You are the most talented young swordsman I have ever seen."
"Even General Mifune…"
"…may not match your perception."
He turned away.
"Do not stop."
"Continue walking your path."
"Reach the peak of the Way of the Sword."
With that—
He left.
Humming softly.
As if nothing had happened.
Aoki Yoru remained there for a moment.
Then bowed once more toward the old man's departing figure.
Only after that did he turn and leave the dojo.
That night—
He returned to his inn.
And began to reflect.
Everything he had learned.
Everything he had felt.
He replayed it again and again.
The next morning—
He sat cross-legged on his bed.
Slowly exhaled.
A faint smile appeared on his face.
Yesterday—
He had seen something important.
His own heart.
And with that—
His swordsmanship had taken a step forward.
A crucial step.
"As expected of the Land of Iron…" he murmured.
"The foundation of samurai swordsmanship…"
"…is something the ninja world cannot easily match."
After a quick meal—
He set out again.
Another dojo awaited.
Heiyan Dojo
Bang—!
A burly man was sent flying backward, crashing through a wooden wall.
Dust rose.
Silence followed.
Aoki Yoru lowered his wooden sword slowly.
His expression…
Was disappointed.
"Hmph."
"All flash…"
"…and no substance."
He turned and walked out.
Without looking back.
Behind him—
The shattered remains of the dojo stood as proof.
He glanced briefly at the plaque above the entrance.
"Heiyan Dojo."
With a casual flick of his hand—
The plaque split in two.
Fell.
Shattered.
Aoki Yoru sighed lightly.
"I had high expectations…"
He had thought a dojo of this size would house a true master.
But instead—
It was hollow.
Superficial.
Not even comparable to Isshin's students.
Still—
He did not stop.
Because he knew—
This journey…
Was only just beginning.
And the harvest he sought—
Was far greater than any single victory.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)