Chapter Seven: Poison Island

Nogi Eiju’s decision was of no concern to Shirado Kyo. He neither cared nor bothered. Now, he had once again tousled his hair, put on his plain glasses, and reverted to looking like an ordinary college student.

“Thank you for your patronage. Here’s your receipt.”

The taxi stopped in Adachi Ward, in front of a modest, old-fashioned dojo. In the patchy glow of the streetlights, a wooden plaque bearing the name “Busujima” hung on one side of the entrance.

With gloved hands, the driver politely handed over the receipt—courteous, yet distant.

To be honest, Shirado Kyo still hadn’t gotten used to the atmosphere of this country. But what did it matter? He was just someone whose life could end at any moment. Seeking comfort was a luxury too far out of reach.

He shook his head, dispelling the jumble of thoughts. Taking the receipt, he glanced at the long string of numbers, then calmly pulled several “Fukuzawa Yukichi” bills from his backpack and handed them to the driver before getting out.

Earning money is for spending it; only circulating funds can become influence in human society, and thus, power.

That was Shirado Kyo’s philosophy of money. What he needed was the power represented by money in moments of crisis, not a pile of numbers lying idle in an account. So, he spent money as fiercely as he earned it.

Once the taxi had rumbled away, Shirado Kyo took out his keys and opened the dojo’s front door. He didn’t turn on the lights, but moved with practiced ease through the darkness, heading to the living quarters at the back.

He’d just slipped off his shoes and was about to enter when the room suddenly blazed with light.

“Oh? Still awake?” he asked, a little puzzled. This wasn’t his senior’s usual routine.

The sliding wooden door was quietly drawn aside.

“Welcome home, Kyo.”

The voice was clearly that of a young woman, yet it carried a ripened allure. Kneeling behind the opened door was a beauty in a yukata, her long violet hair draping over her shoulders—a vision of the classical Yamato nadeshiko.

Her cheeks were flushed, and her almond-shaped eyes gazed at Shirado Kyo with gentle warmth, like a wife awaiting her husband’s return.

But caught in that tender gaze, Shirado Kyo froze in the midst of removing his shoes. After a long pause, he pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation and said,

“Senior, when I first came here a year ago, it was about once every two months. Half a year later, it became once a month. Now... it’s not even a week since the last time.

Was this really Sensei Takemoto’s intention in letting me stay here?”

The beauty only smiled, saying nothing, rising gracefully in a wave of silk and curves. She guided the forlorn Shirado Kyo to sit at the dining table.

Tempura, tonkatsu, curry rice, miso soup... Each dish was exquisitely arranged, wafting with enticing aromas—a meal made with heartfelt care.

A late-night feast, high in calories and filling the entire table, utterly unlike a simple midnight snack.

The beauty pressed Shirado Kyo into his seat and took her place opposite him. Gently, she handed him the only set of utensils, her meaning unmistakable.

“Kyo, please eat.”

With a sigh of resignation, Shirado Kyo picked up the chopsticks and bowl. “Alright, I can’t win with you.”

He didn’t bother with the typical Japanese “Itadakimasu,” but instead began devouring the food with the speed of a tempest.

His chopsticks flashed at his fingertips, leaving afterimages. His mouth was a black hole, food vanishing down his throat almost without chewing, so quickly one might fear he’d ingest the plates as well.

Once he began eating, all his focus was on the meal before him—a habit honed through years of training. Even at the table, one must give their all.

Martial arts consumed energy, and internal cultivation even more so. In a world devoid of spiritual energy, Shirado Kyo’s only source of power was food.

As a child, he’d been called a glutton; as an adult, he was a devourer. The force of his eating was like a series of punches—each swallow bringing an oppressive heaviness, as if suffocating.

In his impoverished youth, he’d even entered eating contests for nutrition. The vigor he displayed then had left all but the professional eaters too awed to continue their meals.

Through the rapid metabolism of his inner strength, the food was transformed into energy, saturating his body, filling his meridians, healing his wounds...

The sheer heat radiating from his body as he ate seemed to warp the air above his head.

Yet the violet-haired beauty across from him, unfazed by this monstrous display, only grew gentler in her gaze.

“…Phew.” Shirado Kyo wiped his mouth with a towel thoughtfully placed on the table, exhaling a breath of satisfaction.

“Did you enjoy your meal?”

The beauty rose, walked to his side, and leaned in gently, her voice soft. Her slender waist, long legs, and full, toned curves were accentuated by the movement.

But now, as the recipient of her care, Shirado Kyo, out of his devouring state, looked entirely unruffled.

“Thank you for the meal, it was truly deli—!”

A sharp gleam flashed from beneath the hem of the beauty’s yukata, slicing through the air towards his throat.

Shirado Kyo couldn’t even stand—he shoved his weight to one side of the chair, dodging the blade by a hair’s breadth.

Rolling away to create distance, he could feel the chill of steel grazing the fine hairs on his neck.

“Hey, hey! You’re using a real blade this time?! That’s too much, Saeko-senpai!”

Though he cried “too much,” as he took off his glasses and swept back his hair, the grin spreading across his lips revealed his excitement.

The violet-haired beauty’s cheeks flushed deeper, her eyes brimming with liquid tenderness, but her sword hand was merciless, delivering a high, downward diagonal slash.

“I told you, call me Saeko!”

The blade’s cold brilliance was the treasured Murata sword of the Busujima family, sharp enough to hack through pig bone without dulling.

Her sword flashed like a storm, her movements—paired with the Busujima style’s signature footwork—rendered her as elusive as a willow in the wind, her presence both overwhelming and beguiling.

Shirado Kyo’s “Dragonblood Secret Art” was only at the introductory stage, and in this world’s incompatible version, he had yet to fully recover. He could rely only on his physical prowess, dodging within the storm of steel.

It was a battle scene fit for a movie. In the cramped space beside the dining table, no matter how swift or fierce the blade, it couldn’t touch him.

His footwork and shifting body wove between each attack with minimal movement—after all, the trajectory of a blade was, in the end, just a line.

But suddenly, a flash of white caught his eye.

From beneath the yukata, a shapely, strong leg extended, hooking behind his knee.

“Taisheru style?”

Taisheru was a unique school of swordsmanship, innovatively blending joint locks and kicks into its techniques. Its practitioners could subdue opponents with sword hilt and limbs in close quarters, even while wielding a blade.

To picture it—imagine the scene in “Advent of the Holy One,” when Sephiros lets Cloud close in past his two-meter sword, only to pummel him with hilt and fists.

“But for a swordswoman to use martial arts against a fighter?”

He gave a wry laugh, but his well-trained body reacted before his mind could finish the thought.

With a muffled thud, the violet-haired beauty was left sprawled on the floor, her eyes unfocused, her yukata in disarray.

“…What just happened?”