That's Not How You Fight

"You!" The gathered disciples of the Shinkishin Meichi School flushed with fury at these words, on the verge of teaching this reckless madman who dared mock their master's name a lesson for his arrogance.

"Alright, alright." Isshin acted as if he hadn't noticed their movements. "Your master sent you to guide the way, not to fight me. Don't waste time—just lead on."

That calm, slightly urging demeanor only made the pent-up disciples choke on their own anger.

The lead disciple shot him a vicious glare, his chest heaving violently several times. But recalling his master's explicit orders, he could only snort heavily, swallow his rage, turn around, and spit out a single rigid word:

"Move!"

The group walked through the broad streets of Red Armor City in a tense, silent atmosphere. The leading disciples moved swiftly, as if trying to outpace the trouble behind them.

Isshin followed unhurriedly, his gaze sweeping over the rows of forging workshops and sword shops lining the streets, listening to the rhythmic clanging within. His expression remained calm, as if he were sightseeing.

Before long, they arrived before a spacious, solemn residence within the city.

Black tiles, white walls. Above the tall lintel hung a plaque bearing the four characters "Shinkishin Meichi," the brushwork forceful and imposing. Stepping through the gate and crossing a meticulously maintained garden, they reached the main dojo.

The dojo was vast. On either side, far from empty, sat over a dozen middle-aged or elderly men, their auras heavy and their attire varied. Some had their arms crossed, others sat upright with formal poise. Their gazes, sharp as lightning, fell in unison upon Isshin as he entered.

These were the heads of other dojos and renowned instructors of Red Armor City. The air itself seemed to thicken with an invisible pressure, so solemn that a dropped needle could be heard.

At the main seat before the dojo sat a towering, iron-tower-like middle-aged man. He wore a dark gray kendo uniform beneath a simple haori, his square face carved with hard lines. Beneath thick brows, his eyes were half-closed, as if dozing.

What drew the eye most was the pitch-black iron rod resting beside him—its material unidentifiable, its mere presence exuding a heavy, undeniable weight.

This man was none other than the founder of the Shinkishin Meichi School, the president of the Red Armor City Swordsmanship Association, the Swordsaint—Soichiro Yagyu.

The leading disciple hurried forward and bowed respectfully before Yagyu: "Master, the man has been brought."

Soichiro Yagyu slowly opened his eyes. His gaze was not particularly sharp or piercing, but deep as an ancient well, carrying the accumulated authority and insight of years. He calmly fixed his eyes on Isshin standing in the center of the dojo.

The entire dojo fell silent. All the observing dojo heads and instructors held their breath, waiting for the Swordsaint to speak, while scrutinizing this young madman who had dared challenge his way here.

"You came from the south, challenging over twenty dojos across eight cities. I ask you—what do you seek by acting thus?"

Soichiro Yagyu did not immediately attack. His deep gaze lingered on Isshin for a moment before he spoke slowly:

"To temper the blade in my hand, and to verify the Way in my heart. Beyond that..." Isshin paused, his voice steady. "I intend to establish a dojo here, in the name of the Ashina Style, and pass on what I have learned."

"Oh?" Soichiro Yagyu narrowed his eyes, a sharp glint flashing through the slits. "Since you've come to Red Armor City, you must harbor the same intentions as before."

He raised a hand—broad and thick—and gestured to the sides of the dojo: "Every instructor in Red Armor City worthy of the title is gathered here today. If you wish to test yourself, the opportunity lies before you."

Soichiro Yagyu's gaze returned to Isshin as he continued: "As for opening a dojo and taking disciples here..."

The faintest, almost imperceptible curve touched his lips: "That is a matter for later! If you can pass this trial before you and prove yourself worthy, I, in my capacity as president of the local swordsmanship association, will grant you the right to establish a dojo."

His words were calm, but they conveyed immense pressure clearly. The atmosphere in the dojo grew heavier, nearly tangible.

In that suffocating silence, Isshin suddenly smiled. His gaze swept over the displeased dojo heads on both sides, and his voice rang out clearly, carrying a matter-of-fact tone:

"Good! Since everyone's here, it saves trouble. Will you come one by one, or all at once?"

"Insolent!"

"Outrageous!"

"Arrogant fool!"

"An ignorant whelp who doesn't know his place!"

These words were like cold water dropped into boiling oil—the dojo erupted instantly!

The dojo heads could no longer contain themselves, shouting their rebukes.

They were all prominent figures in Red Armor City. When had they ever been so belittled by an unknown junior?

This was no longer a challenge—it was outright humiliation!

"Let me teach you some manners!" A sharp, piercing cry rang out.

From the left seating area, a lean, monkey-like figure was the first to lose patience. With a single leap, he landed lightly on the floor, standing opposite Isshin.

This man was around forty, his gaze sharp as a hawk's. At his waist hung a long and a short real blade—he was Kyosuke Tori, the head of the "Flying Swallow Dual-Sword Style," famed for his swift dual-blade attacks.

His right hand was already on the hilt of his long sword, eyes fixed on Isshin as he spoke coldly: "Flying Swallow Dual-Sword Style! Kyosuke Tori!"

Isshin's expression did not change. He calmly gripped the hilt of his own slightly oversized katana at his waist and announced his name: "Ashina Style, Isshin."

The moment the words fell, Kyosuke Tori moved!

With a sharp clang, the long blade left its sheath, trailing a flash of snowy light. His form was truly like a swallow skimming water, the tip aimed straight for Isshin's throat—fast, precise, ruthless!

At the same time, his left hand had already moved toward his short sword, a chain of lethal follow-up strikes ready to unfold!

But Isshin was faster!

The instant Kyosuke Tori's long blade had barely cleared the scabbard's mouth, Isshin moved as well. He did not retreat—instead, he stepped forward!

The step was small, but it precisely closed the gap to the very limit of the opponent's sword's extension.

His wrist twisted, and the scabbard shot forward like an iron rod, slamming with pinpoint accuracy into Kyosuke Tori's sword-wielding wrist!

"Clang!"

The scabbard collided with the tsuba, producing a crisp ring of metal against metal!

Such power!?

Kyosuke Tori felt his wrist go numb as his thrusting trajectory was forcibly interrupted, his follow-up dagger strikes stillborn in their tracks. Shock flooded his heart, but his reaction was swift—he immediately shifted tactics, intending to slash at the scabbard with his blade.

But Isshin moved like flowing water, without a single pause. At the moment of impact, his true sword light erupted like a thunderbolt!

Shing!

The long blade left its sheath—not a iai draw cut, but leveraging the recoil from the scabbard's collision, twisting his waist and turning his body, the edge arced upward from an impossibly tricky angle, aimed at the gap beneath Kyosuke Tori's armpit, exposed by his change in stance!

So fast it was nothing but a blur of light!

Kyosuke Tori's pupils contracted. In the barest fraction of a second, he barely managed to twist his blade back to parry.

"Clang!"

The two swords clashed, sparks flying!

The force transmitted through Isshin's blade far exceeded Kyosuke Tori's expectations, jarring his arm numb and leaving his center wide open again.

Isshin's sword momentum sank downward, the spine of the blade whipping like a lash, striking Kyosuke Tori's flank with heavy force.

"Ugh!"

Kyosuke Tori let out a muffled grunt, his entire body lifted sideways by the immense power, stumbling and crashing over a dozen meters away. His long sword slipped from his grip, clattering onto the polished stone floor. He curled up, clutching his abdomen, unable to rise for a time.

One exchange—victory and defeat decided!

The angry shouts within the dojo ceased abruptly, replaced by a stifled wave of gasps.

Kyosuke Tori's dual-blade rapid assault was fairly renowned in Red Armor City—and he hadn't even lasted a single round?

"That's not how you fight!"

At the edge of the field, a gaunt-faced instructor with a goatee seated in the back row spoke to his disciple behind him. "When facing an opponent like this, the key lies in... hmm, in predicting their power-generation movements and breaking their rhythm."

The young disciple listened with a blank expression, then instinctively pressed, "Master, then how exactly does one predict that? And how does one break their rhythm?"

"Well... the subtlety of this cannot be fully conveyed through words. You must observe more, and comprehend more."

Having said this, the goateed instructor sat upright and fell silent, wearing an air of profound mystery.