The guy with the body odor swaggered up onto the stage, dramatically drawing his shinobi blade. With a flick of his wrist, he made a flashy blade flourish and pointed the sword at Gekkō Hoshiyomi.
"I'm Nakashita Minoru. Come—show me what you've got."
Hoshiyomi didn't even bother responding. His opinion of Nakashita couldn't be lower.
In a blink, he flashed forward. With a single swing of his sheathed sword, he smacked Minoru's wrist.
Startled by Hoshiyomi's sudden burst of speed, Minoru reflexively tried to pull back—but he was far too slow.
The sheath slammed hard against his wrist. Crying out in pain, he dropped his weapon. Before the blade even hit the ground, Hoshiyomi hooked it up with the tip of his foot.
As the sword flew upward, Hoshiyomi snapped his leg forward and kicked it by the flat of the blade, sending it flipping back toward Minoru.
Minoru stood frozen, completely thrown off. He wanted to catch the flying sword, but what if he missed and grabbed the blade instead of the hilt?
Paralyzed by indecision, he flinched and awkwardly dodged his own weapon.
The sword clattered off the platform and landed outside the ring.
For a samurai, losing your weapon was an immediate disqualification.
The audience burst into boos.
Big talk about how someone else was just for show, and you didn't even last one round? Pathetic!
Flushed red, Minoru didn't even have the nerve to talk back. Face burning, he slunk off the platform in disgrace.
Hoshiyomi took the opportunity to glance at his Sword Heart System.
Sure enough—not even a single point of experience. These two jokers hadn't been worth the effort.
He exited the system and addressed the crowd:
"If that's the level we're dealing with, do yourselves a favor and don't step up. No need to embarrass yourselves."
The audience's reaction was mixed.
Some, realizing they had no shot, quietly slipped away to other platforms. Others narrowed their eyes, plotting to wait until Hoshiyomi ran low on stamina before challenging him.
And, of course, there were a few hot-blooded types clenching their fists, itching to take him down.
Sure enough, shortly after, a man with a more mature appearance stepped onto the stage—clearly someone pressing the tournament's age limit of twenty-five.
He carried himself with a seasoned, almost overly formal air and announced:
"I am Matsushita Gorin. I ranked in the top 100 of the last Kenjutsu Tournament.
I came here today to remind you, young man, not to look down on the world's warriors."
"I may not have your talent, but don't underestimate someone competing in their second tournament.
Let me, as a senior, teach you the value of discipline.
After this match, go home and train hard. With your talent, you might just reach the top ten next time."
The audience murmured at this.
Gorin wasn't just a previous top-100 fighter—he'd also just given Hoshiyomi some high praise.
Top ten? That was the domain of prodigies, elite geniuses of the Land of Iron. Was this boy really that strong?
Hoshiyomi stared at Gorin, unimpressed.
Sure, you sound wise and all, but you're seriously underestimating me.
Still, the man did catch his interest. From his posture and the calluses on his hands, Hoshiyomi could tell he was a real practitioner of kenjutsu—miles above those earlier clowns.
This was the kind of mid-level opponent he wanted to test himself against.
Hoshiyomi took him seriously—but still didn't draw Mikazuki Munekiri.
According to Master Morishige, if you had to draw your sword against anyone ranked lower than the top fifty, you probably didn't belong in the top five.
Morishige himself had famously fought through the first three rounds without ever unsheathing his blade. Only in the fourth round did he begin using it seriously.
Hoshiyomi wanted to challenge that record.
Gorin, however, saw that Hoshiyomi hadn't drawn his weapon and assumed he was being insulted. His face twisted in anger as he shouted:
"Let me teach you some humility!"
He drew his own shinobi blade and charged.
His downward slash might've mirrored the first opponent's movement, but everything about it was different.
The muscle brute from before had been slow, clumsy, and riddled with openings. Gorin was fast—much faster—and far more controlled.
More importantly, his stance was tight and guarded. His dominant hand held the blade while his off-hand moved unpredictably, covering vital points and keeping his weaknesses hidden.
Hoshiyomi couldn't use the same tricks here.
Their weapons clashed with a sharp clang, echoing through the arena like the bell that marked the beginning of a real duel.
From that moment, the two became a blur—steel ringing against steel in rapid succession.
Gorin was no amateur. If anything, he was stronger than Kazama Masahiro back at the dojo.
Their blades collided again and again, and despite Hoshiyomi's raw power, Gorin's grip never faltered. His wrists weren't shaken in the slightest. That alone spoke volumes.
What Hoshiyomi didn't know, though, was that Gorin was mentally screaming.
He had thought his earlier assessment had been generous. Now he realized he had still underestimated this boy.
Is his body made of iron?!
They'd been trading blows for a while now, and Gorin's arms were aching from fatigue. But Hoshiyomi looked completely fine—like he wasn't even breaking a sweat.
If this had been a normal match, Gorin might've already forfeited. But after his big "senior warrior" speech, backing out now would be humiliating.
He gritted his teeth.
I started this—now I have to see it through, even if I get flattened.
Five years of training since my last tournament… and I might not even make it past the prelims?
This sucks!
Meanwhile, Hoshiyomi was totally unaware of Gorin's internal meltdown. He was too focused—and excited. This guy could probably earn him 3 to 5 points of experience.
And if there are 100 more like him waiting in line?
Jackpot.
I, Gekkō Hoshiyomi, will use this tournament to rocket myself to Advanced Swordsmanship!
Not even the Sage of Six Paths could stop me now!
His swings became faster, stronger. Gorin, on the other hand, started faltering, becoming more defensive and hesitant.
After a few more exchanges, Hoshiyomi spotted an opening and drove the sheath into Gorin's ribs, knocking the wind out of him.
Then he followed up with a clean punch to the shoulder—sending Gorin flying off the platform.
Crashing to the ground, Gorin quickly chose to fake being unconscious rather than face public shame.
The crowd gasped.
Wait… someone who ranked top 100 in the last tournament just got flattened like that?
What chance do the rest of us have?
In an instant, the area around Hoshiyomi's platform cleared out. Even when he taunted—
"How about the next seven of you come up together?"
—no one responded.
We still have our dignity, okay?!
Thirty minutes later, with the referee girl watching him like a literal fan-girl, Hoshiyomi officially passed the preliminaries and received his invitation to the main tournament.
Ah… to be unmatched.
So lonely. So, so lonely…~
PS: Read Advance Chapters at https://www.patreon.com/c/ReadJin