Chapter Eight: Once Upon a Time

Baitang Jing’s gaze swept over the disheveled, unclothed body lying on the ground, then returned expressionlessly to the dining table, where he began clearing the dishes. The mundanity of his movements, so full of domestic life, rendered the recent bloody fight as insubstantial as a phantom.

“I don’t know when you learned the Taisha style, but as a swordswoman, choosing to close in on a martial artist—has your mind finally broken, senpai?”

Saeko Busujima, who was just now snapped out of her grappling technique, had entirely shed the dignified composure of a Yamato Nadeshiko. Instead, she rolled about on the floor like a mischievous child, heedless of how much more of her delicate, voluptuous body she exposed.

“It’s all your fault, Jing! All your fault! I only wanted a little sparring, but the scent of blood on you made me far too excited!”

“That’s exactly what I was afraid of. I made sure no one bled in that fight before we came back! How can you pin this on me?”

“I don’t care! If Uncle Takemoto asks about my condition later, you’ll have to take full responsibility!”

Baitang Jing pressed a hand to his forehead and sighed.

Things had been off ever since he arrived in Tokyo a year ago.

Back then, after signing a contract with the local power of Fukushima—the Toyama Clan—he had made the decision, according to the pact, and for the sake of his future at the University of Tokyo, his assets, and further martial training, to help “Red Sand” take a bite out of Tokyo, the juiciest piece of land in all Japan.

Thus, it was only natural for him to leave the countryside of Fukushima for Tokyo.

But as an adopted minor, enrolling in school and daily life in Tokyo proved a nightmare. The Toyama Clan could have helped, but the whole point of that contract was to separate his own grand designs from the likes of the criminal underworld. There would have been no sense in seeking their aid now.

Fortunately, though he had yet to step foot in the University of Tokyo and build his political network, the connections he had made through martial arts training came to his rescue.

Out in rural Fukushima, there was a dojo teaching Takemoto-style practical boxing. This was the first—and last—place he sought out after Toyama Hideki, the clan head, decreed that no one in Fukushima was to instruct him in martial arts again. He was reluctant to give up, so he tried anyway.

There, he encountered the founder of the Takemoto style himself—Takemoto Hisayasu—who was visiting from Tokyo, making his rounds through his chain of dojos.

Inside the dojo, two figures of vastly different builds were locked in close combat.

“Is this a joke? That kid!”

“That’s the demon everyone’s been talking about?”

“Don’t be ridiculous... he’s just a strong little brat, that’s all.”

“You call that ‘just a little strong’?”

With a string of moves that left even the onlookers shaken, the small figure used a ferocious, reckless fighting style and flawless technique. With a single over-the-shoulder throw, he sent the burly sensei flying.

The shock of the scene was akin to a kitten mauling an adult. Then, the boy, now in a dominant position, used his weight and his opponent’s joints with masterful dexterity, pinning the sensei until his face turned red and he tapped the floor in surrender.

Having watched the entire match, the man known as the “God of Martial Arts”—an old man with a full head of white hair, his body still corded with muscle—was clearly impressed. “Come here. Tell me what’s going on.”

Despite the local dojo owner’s troubled look, he questioned the boy and heard his story.

After a long silence, he did not, like some hero out of a chivalrous tale, storm the Toyama Clan’s headquarters. Instead, he asked the nine-year-old boy seriously, “Child, do you truly wish to become strong?”

As an elder, this was the question he had to ask. In modern society, there are countless paths to take; why stubbornly pursue one unless absolutely necessary?

He gazed into the boy’s eyes, burning with a fierce, consuming light, and found his answer.

To become the strongest in the world.

He had to—there was no other choice.

Every man, at some point, must have entertained such a thought—“I want to be the strongest.” But as we grow up and mature, as we learn the workings of society and witness the power of technology, that dream almost always fades away like a mirage.

After all, violence is useless to ordinary people’s lives.

But this boy was different.

It was as if something terrifying was chasing him—an urgency that said he’d die if he didn’t become the strongest.

Someone like this, even if his bones shattered, even if his muscles dissolved... would never give up on that dream of being the strongest in the world.

Even as the so-called “God of Martial Arts,” Takemoto Hisayasu was a man grounded in reality. He was not foolish enough to challenge the local crime boss, nor to spirit the boy away. Instead, he left the young Baitang Jing a private phone number.

In the days that followed, he began to instruct Baitang Jing over the phone.

Since the subtleties of classical martial arts couldn’t be taught that way, he guided him to study Jeet Kune Do instead—a modern martial art that fosters combat intelligence and adaptability. Mastery of it, even if paired with only average basics, was enough to make one a formidable fighter.

And then... he kicked his way through every dojo in Fukushima!

If they wouldn’t teach him, he’d beat the skills out of them and learn by force.

Thanks to his biological superbrain, which coordinated his physical development, his analytical prowess allowed him to pick up secret techniques from each dojo at a glance.

On good days, he could execute moves that took other disciples months to master the moment after witnessing them.

Thanks to him, the density of dojos in Fukushima County plummeted dramatically in just a few years.

It was this very ability that qualified him to sign that contract.

After arriving in Tokyo, Takemoto Hisayasu shot three feet into the air at the news!

Because it meant that the little brat from before had grown strong enough to make the local crime boss back down.

He dragged him off to Kamurocho that very day, intending to celebrate among the city’s pleasures.

It was also then that Baitang Jing learned, for the first time, that his ninety-year-old master still had a lover in Kamurocho!

Drunk with joy, the old man embraced his beautiful young companion, content as he gazed at the disciple he had taught by phone—the only one, in fact, whose martial arts talent he truly acknowledged.

“Enrollment procedures? No problem! I remember when I tried to promote the Takemoto style to the Minister of Education, we got along well. Didn’t work out in the end, but we’re still on good terms.”

“But, Jing-chan...”

The white-haired, beardless old man gave a sly smile.

Drinking juice, Baitang Jing—who had never set foot in a pleasure district in either of his lives—perched on the edge of the sofa, shivering at the nickname.

“Sensei, you never spoke to me like this on the phone...”

“Shut up, you brat! You pay back favors to crooks but not your own teacher?”

Only when the youth nodded in reluctant agreement did the “God of Martial Arts,” still dressed in kimono in the pleasure house, down another highball with satisfaction.

“Gulp... ha! It’s nothing serious. I just have a friend who practices classical swordsmanship. She’s abroad now, but her daughter’s apparently become obsessed with the sword—so obsessed she craves real combat and bloodshed. You don’t have a place to stay in Tokyo, do you? Go live there, spar with her every few days, burn off some of her killing intent. And by the way, she’s a real beauty!”

“Honestly, if you’re not going to spill blood, what’s the point in practicing old-school swordsmanship? Am I right, Ai-chan?”

Ai-chan, a battle-hardened hostess of Kamurocho, played along, flattering the old man and prompting peals of laughter and endless orders of expensive drinks he never intended to touch.

“Killing,” “bloodshed”—she didn’t hear a word of it. (Charming smile.)

And now, the Busujima senpai who had once seemed the very embodiment of a Yamato Nadeshiko, whose murderous nature had been laid bare and who had been defeated time and time again...

No longer felt the slightest shame in front of Baitang Jing!