Chapter One: The Way of the Sword

City Youth Palace, Musashi Kendo Training Center.

At the center of the hall, two figures clad in kendo armor faced each other, each gripping a bamboo sword. Their sword tips crossed, the one on the left trembling slightly—not out of fear, but as a probing gesture, masking the imminent strike that might burst forth at any moment. This was akin to the nimble footwork found in taekwondo, sanda, and jeet kune do.

Yet the swordsman on the right remained motionless—motionless in every sense. His bamboo sword was steady, his breathing deep and even. Only his feet shifted minutely within the span of a step, adjusting for the perfect position to meet and counter any attack.

The hall was hushed. Countless eyes watched, transfixed. Kendo duels were not exchanges of blows like other martial arts; victory and defeat were settled in an instant, as sudden as the crack of spring thunder. In the old days, when wandering swordsmen ruled, what followed the thunder was not applause, but a silent shower of crimson rain.

For two whole minutes, the arena held its silence. The two swordsmen continued their subtle shifts—advancing, retreating, but neither launched the first strike.

In the third minute, the probing swordsman on the left finally could not restrain himself. A roar erupted from beneath his helmet, reverberating through the hall—yet still, he did not strike.

The swordsman on the right was undisturbed by this sudden battle cry. He did not move, not even a tremor from his bamboo sword.

Three minutes and twenty seconds in, the left side finally attacked. Without warning, he raised his sword high and brought it down in a practiced cut, an action he’d rehearsed tens of thousands of times.

But the right side met him instantly. As soon as his opponent’s arm lifted, he struck, raising his bamboo sword and smashing it against the descending attack—deflecting what should have been a decisive blow. He stepped forward and, catching his opponent off guard, delivered a clean, swift overhead cut.

A hit to the head.

A duel that had held in stasis for three minutes ended in less than three seconds.

Thunderous applause erupted from the sidelines, joined by the cheers of children. This was, after all, the largest youth palace in the city, crowded with children.

Thus, the duel was not the world-renowned clash of swordmasters, but a demonstration match in the youth palace’s kendo training class. Its purpose was to showcase the allure of kendo to children and their accompanying parents, in hopes of recruiting for the upcoming spring session.

“If I wasn’t still dazed from that blow, I’d think I must have dreamed all of this,” said the man on the left, removing his helmet to reveal the face of a middle-aged man, over forty, his expression both awed and incredulous.

The victor on the right likewise removed his helmet, revealing a boy so young he barely seemed old enough—black-haired, dark-eyed, with a composed face, showing no joy at his win. He bowed to the man, then straightened and said, “The young always have the advantage in speed and reaction, in both boxing and kendo.”

“It’s all about response and speed, but you really need to change your habit of only countering and never initiating. Not taking the offensive puts you at a disadvantage.” The middle-aged man tucked his helmet at his waist, clicking his tongue as he looked at the boy, who could not have been more than sixteen or seventeen. “If I hadn’t trained you myself, I’d swear you learned kendo in the womb. Even my sudden battle cry couldn’t shake your footing.”

Kendo’s “battle cry” was the shout the middle-aged man had let loose—a tactic meant to startle and intimidate, often called a “war cry” nowadays. If the shout was loud and sudden enough to startle the opponent into exposing a weakness, one could capitalize and win in a breath.

“You’re overthinking it, coach.” The boy finally managed a wry smile. “I just react quickly. When you shouted, your fingers didn’t show any sign of tightening on the sword—I wasn’t about to fall for it.”

“At least you still call me coach.” The man cast a glance at the excited children and the parents rubbing their sore wallets on the sidelines, sighing, “I passed the sixth dan last year, and now I lose to you. What am I supposed to do for my pride?”

“A student need not be inferior to his teacher,” the boy replied. “Besides, I’m your student, which only proves your coaching skills are even more formidable than your own technique.”

“That’s a fair point.” The man pondered, then after a moment spat, “You’ve only beaten me a few times, and you dare say you’ve surpassed me? Have you taken the dan test yet? Is your footwork and posture up to standard?”

“All right, all right.” The boy wisely changed the subject. “But why did you invite me back for this demonstration instead of asking Senior Chu Zi Hang?”

“He’s taking his college entrance exams this year,” the coach replied. “Besides, I don’t know him well. If it weren’t for you, he wouldn’t even be connected to my club—he stopped training here after elementary school and only occasionally comes back as an honorary graduate for performances. Why should I invite him? You’re the perfect laborer right here.”

“So he’s taking exams and I’m not?” The boy sighed. “I actually think Chu Zi Hang is better-looking than me. He’d bring more appeal to the demonstration, help balance your dojo’s yin and yang.”

“Nonsense, you’re handsome too, no less than him. Anyway, have you planned what university you’ll attend?” The coach grinned, revealing bright teeth, and pulled the boy over with his left arm, facing the students and parents on the sidelines. He snapped several photos, and in the crowd, a beautiful blonde foreign girl enthusiastically pointed her own camera at them.

“Soon.” The boy managed a smile for the camera, then quickly returned to his calm demeanor. “I’ll just leave it up to fate.”

“You can’t just leave it to fate,” the coach said, patting his shoulder. “You need to study, broaden your horizons. You’re gifted—quick reflexes, great coordination—if you want, you can pursue kendo professionally. I can recommend you; I’m a sixth dan, after all.”

“Forty-three-year-old sixth dan,” the boy retorted, stabbing a little. “When are you going for seventh?”

“Five years from now, that’s the rule. Shame it’s so rigid; otherwise, with your talent, you could probably become a swordmaster before you turn thirty.” The coach ruffled the boy’s hair, laughing.

“Don’t flatter me. Kendo’s just a hobby for now.” The boy clearly lacked enthusiasm for his coach’s praise.

“Make the most of your youth—get some experience in high school romance so you’re not lost in college.” The coach mused, “I hear at Shilan High, the luxury cars at the gate during rainy days look like a car show, and there are plenty of refined young ladies inside. Chase after one or two and you’ll have your college tuition covered.”

“What kind of advice is that? Didn’t expect you to be such a scoundrel, coach.” The boy looked at him in surprise.

“If I could live off women, I would, but time waits for no man. With your looks, it’d be a shame not to try.” The coach said earnestly.

“My stomach’s fine—I prefer real food, and I’m not interested in that, anyway. No one would like me, anyway.” The boy shook his head.

“Enough with the modesty. You think I don’t know how popular you are at school? There are plenty who like you. Young people should fill their hearts with butterflies from spring gardens, not sour ink and dissatisfaction with the world.” The coach pushed the boy, then gave him a kick. “Go do whatever you need to—your pay’s at the front desk.”

“There’s pay? I thought it was a volunteer demonstration.” The boy paused and looked back.

“Have you saved enough for next year’s tuition?” The coach raised his brows.

“It’s still early.” The boy smiled, helpless.

“It’s not early. Focus on your studies in your second year, maybe chase some girls, but don’t waste your youth working.” The coach waved him off and walked toward the eager children. “Go on, study hard, improve every day. I’ll call you for the next demonstration—remember to let me win.”

The boy hesitated, said nothing, just smiled and turned away.

“Oh, right, Lin Nian,” the coach suddenly called out.

“What?” The boy looked back.

“Nothing, just to let you know—my daughter said she saw your sister a few days ago at a new café in the high-tech district.”

“Working?” The boy paused.

“Yes, just letting you know,” the coach nodded.

“Got it,” the boy replied. “I’m off.”

“Mm.”

With that, the boy picked up his helmet and bamboo sword and left the hall, his silhouette heavy with sudden weight.