"I see."
"Sasaki Kojiro—that is my name."
For some reason, this was the first time this Sasaki Kojiro had learned his own name.
A smile naturally appeared on his face.
"Then—allow me to introduce myself anew!"
"I am—Sasaki Kojiro! A swordsman who wields the 'Clothesline Pole,' a weapon no one else can swing, as if it were made for my hand!"
"Yet I am not of Ganryu. The swordsmanship I use is my own style."
At Kojiro's words, Musashi gave a carefree smile.
"Styles, in the end, are merely labels forced upon things by later generations—I only need to know that you are Sasaki Kojiro. That is enough."
Kojiro nodded in agreement at Musashi's words.
"Likewise, who you truly are, whether you are man or woman, are all but trivial details."
"As long as you wield Niten Ichi-ryu, your sword is worth breaking through."
The path I have walked was an illusory journey—
The manner of my existence was that of an illusory swordsman.
"Ethereal and elusive, like a dream, like a phantom."
Kojiro closed his eyes, reaching behind his back.
His hand gripped the hilt of the long blade.
"Within the gaps of history alone—perfecting the single stroke that slays the flying Yan!"
"But Musashi, Musashi. Before me now stands a beautiful flower—"
Two sword saints.
Two people.
Standing opposed, gazing at one another.
No matter when.
No matter where.
Even if the meaning of battle itself no longer existed.
—Such things did not matter to the two before each other.
Because
So long as these two met—
"Since Musashi has met Kojiro, then there is only one thing that can happen, isn't there?"
Fuuma Kotarou narrowed his eyes.
"Mm, that's right—you're absolutely right!"
Musashi smiled as well.
The two of them simultaneously reined in their presence, and then—