Chapter Text
Rain began pouring from the sky without warning. It didn’t begin with gentle trickles as it usually did, no soft drizzle over the fields nor subtle raindrops wetting the ground as a warning.
It came all at once, a furious downpour, a curtain of water that blurred the night without any signs it was coming before it began.
Hakuji stepped out from the front yard, and the world greeted him with thunder and rain. His bare feet slapped against the drenched ground, splashing through shallow puddles that burst outward like shattered glass, sending water flying up his calves.
The cold struck him instantly. The rain soaked into his white robes in seconds, clinging to his skin, weighing him down as if trying to chain him in place. The heavy fabric flapped against his body, plastered to his chest, but he drove forward, each stride fueled by fire strong enough to burn through the storm.
The dirt path softened under the assault of the rain, turning into a slick trail of mud. Each step sank into the earth, pulling at his heels like hands trying to drag him down, leaving deep prints that filled with murky water the moment he lifted his foot.
The edges of his robes were stained brown, streaked with grime, but he no longer cared. The mud only reminded him of what he’d already lost—purity, peace, the life he should’ve had.
His breath came hard and ragged, steam mixing with the cool mist of the rain. Droplets ran down his face, some sliding into his mouth, bitter with the taste of soil carried from the roof tiles and branches above. Others stung his eyes, mingling with the heat of tears he could not stop, though in the storm they became indistinguishable.
The sound of the downpour drowned everything, a deafening roar that swallowed the world whole. Yet through it all, Hakuji heard the pounding of his own heartbeat—loud, furious, unrelenting.
His fists pumped at his sides as he ran, knuckles white, nails still biting into the cuts he’d left in his palms earlier. His body screamed for rest, every muscle sore, his lungs burning, but the storm seemed to merge with his fury, carrying him forward, feeding his stride.
The earthy scent of rain rose from the soaked ground, sharp and heavy, clinging to his nose and lungs. It was the smell of renewal, of life—but to Hakuji, it was suffocating, a cruel reminder that nature continued to flourish, indifferent to his grief.
Lightning flashed across the sky, splitting the heavens with white fire. For a second, the rival dojo loomed ahead in the distance, its dark silhouette stark against the night. Hakuji’s eyes locked on it, and the thunder that followed felt like it echoed from his own chest.
His pace quickened. His anger deepened. His resolve hardened. The storm outside was nothing compared to the storm within.
Entering the front yard of the rival dojo, a strong sense of unease and disgust hit him like a wall. The sight of the familiar grounds—once a place of rivalry, now a nest of murderers—made bile rise in his throat.
The rain still poured, streaming down his face, dripping from his jaw, tracing along the lines of his veins that stood out against his pale, strained skin. His eyes burned crimson, not from the storm, but from the wrath boiling inside him.
His mind carried no thoughts of retreat. No fear. No hesitation. His body was a vessel carved hollow by grief, filled to the brim with only vengeance and rage. Every nerve in him trembled with violent anticipation, every muscle tightened as if preparing for war.
Hakuji slowed his pace. His quick, reckless run became a deliberate march, each footstep striking the mud-packed ground with finality, as though hammering down nails that sealed his path.
There was no turning back—not tonight, not ever. Each step anchored him deeper into his resolve, weighing him with the gravity of his purpose.
The dojo’s sliding doors glowed faintly with light from within, the shadows of figures etched across the paper panels. He could see their outlines clearly: men sitting cross-legged, tankards of sake raised high, swords leaned lazily against the walls. Their arms moved freely, gestures wild, bodies relaxed in careless celebration.
Laughter carried faintly through the paper, muffled by the storm, but sharp enough to pierce through the roaring downpour and grind against his ears.
They didn’t even notice him—this tall, broad, rain-drenched figure standing just steps away. To them, the night was theirs to revel in, their crimes already buried beneath sake and arrogance.
It was almost comical. Truly, if Hakuji had any humor left in him, he might’ve laughed. They looked as though they were celebrating a festival—voices raised, bodies swaying—like children oblivious to consequence.
Perhaps they thought they had won. Perhaps they believed the world would bend and accept their sins as triumph.
But he knew. He remembered. Their laughter wasn’t born from joy, it was rooted in blood. They were celebrating the death of his master, Keizo, a man who had given Hakuji a reason to live.
They were celebrating the poisoning of his Koyuki, his light, his one anchor in this fractured life. They were laughing at pain that wasn’t theirs.
His thoughts halted in an abrupt, icy stop. The laughter blurred into static. His focus narrowed, centered only on his fists, clenched so tight that his knuckles cracked, also grounding his bare feet firmly on the wooden panels. His entire being braced for what was to come, his fury sharpening into something unshakable, immovable.
And then—without warning—Hakuji lunged forward.
He seized the sliding door with both hands and wrenched it aside—not with restraint, not with control, but with force so violent it shattered under his grip.
The bamboo framework splintered into countless shards, scattering like a rain of jagged fragments. The delicate paper tore apart in bursts, fluttering in the air like wounded feathers, fragments mingling with the rain that swept inside.
The sound silenced the room instantly. Every silhouette froze mid-motion. Cups halted before lips. Jaws slackened. Heads turned. Their revelry was severed in one brutal instant.
And in the doorway stood Hakuji—drenched, robes clinging to his frame, his hair plastered against his forehead, his chest rising and falling with deep, storm-fueled breaths.
The downpour outside framed him, lightning flashing behind his shoulders, thunder rolling like a war drum announcing his arrival. His eyes locked onto the men inside—not wide with madness, but narrowed, sharp, and deadly.
“Isn’t that Keizo’s disciple from next door?”
The words slithered out of the leader’s mouth, heavy with sake, arrogance dripping from each syllable. His voice carried across the room, not with the steel of command, but with the dull bravado of a man who had long since mistaken cowardice for cunning.
He didn’t rise from his seat, didn’t even straighten his swollen back; instead, he leaned lazily against the low table, his hand clutching another overflowing cup.
His cheeks were flushed red with alcohol, and his speech was sluggish yet boastful, like the ramblings of a man too drunk on both liquor and his own hollow sense of power.
There was no fear in him—only arrogance.
The leader’s eyes, small and beady, narrowed as they fell upon Hakuji’s drenched figure. Those eyes revealed much: they were not sharp with clarity, not hardened by years of discipline or battle.
They were eyes that saw the world through a narrow slit, incapable of depth, incapable of honor. They belonged to a man who would never meet his enemies on equal ground, who would rather scheme in the shadows than face them head-on.
A mocking smirk spread across his broad, greasy face. His lips curled back, exposing crooked teeth stained by years of tobacco and drink. The smirk stretched wider, pressing into the folds of flesh that sagged beneath his cheeks.
The man’s chin—if it could still be called a chin—was buried beneath layers of fat. Not one, not two, but three thick rolls stacked upon each other, quivering slightly every time his voice rumbled through his throat.
And what a throat it was—short, stumpy, barely visible beneath the swollen jowls that enveloped it. He looked more like a pig dressed in robes than a master swordsman.
The robes themselves, once symbols of martial discipline, strained around his bulk, their fabric stretched thin across his large stomach. Where others wore their uniforms with pride and precision, his seemed more like a costume—a desperate attempt to conceal his own incompetence.
At his side lay a hat he had discarded earlier, revealing a sparse and greasy scalp. A few wiry strands of hair clung desperately to his head, plastered down with sweat and oil. His forehead shone slick beneath the lamplight, the skin stretched and glistening as if mocking the very concept of discipline.
This man, this failure, mess, abomination of a swordsman, dared to call himself a leader.
“It was unfortunate we couldn’t finish this guy as well,” he continued, his voice thick with drink, each word laced with mockery. “Using the exact same way we ended Keizo… ended by us.”
The men around him chuckled, emboldened by their master’s arrogance, their laughter mixing with the clinking of cups. None of them felt the chill that filled the room, none of them sensed the storm of rage standing only meters away.
They were too blinded by their own triumph, too drunk on victory to notice the predator they had trapped themselves with.
This leader, this coward, had built his power not on strength, not on skill, not on the honor that once defined the way of the sword.
No—his rule was carved from poison and deceit. He was the kind of man who would rather foul another’s well than draw his blade in a fair fight. A man who would rather strike from the shadows than face an enemy in the light.
It was pathetic.
A dojo of such size and renown, now rotting under the leadership of a man who knew nothing of honor, who knew nothing of discipline, who knew only how to spread corruption like a disease.
Poison was his weapon. Lies were his armor. And cowardice was the foundation upon which he sat so proudly, mistaking it for strength.
Every word he spoke was an insult—not just to Keizo, not just to Koyuki, but to the very art of swordsmanship itself.
And Hakuji, standing in the doorway, drenched and silent, could feel the rage coil tighter in his chest, burning hotter than the storm outside.
The men around him erupted into laughter at their leader’s words, the drunken jeers spilling into the smoky air of the room. Cups clattered, sake splashed across the tatami, and some of the younger swordsmen pounded their fists on the table in mock applause.
“Ended by us!” one of them echoed, his voice shrill and slurred.
“Keizo thought he was untouchable, but he was just another fool!” another chimed in, wiping rice wine from his beard.
“Now his daughter… What a shame, hm? Perhaps next time we don’t waste such beauty,” a third sneered, his words earning more howls of approval.
The room was thick with their cruelty, their sense of triumph so overwhelming that not one of them even stopped to notice the storm building in the man who stood in their doorway.
Hakuji’s eyes flicked across their faces—each one distorted, twisted in grotesque laughter. Their mouths were wide, teeth yellow, breath reeking of sake, their expressions all blurring together into a single, hideous mask of corruption.
These were not swordsmen who lived by discipline or code; they were cowards hiding behind poisoned wells, scavengers feeding on weakness. Every clap, every drunken cheer was another nail hammered into Hakuji’s restraint.
The leader leaned forward, squinting at Hakuji through his beady eyes. His chin folds jiggled with each smug chuckle. “What? Do you plan on avenging them, boy? With those fists of yours? You’re nothing but a stray dog they picked up off the streets.”
He raised his cup high and spilled sake down his robes in a toast, as if mocking Hakuji’s very existence. “Drink to their memory, why don’t you? Because after tonight, yours will be just that—another memory.”
The laughter roared again, echoing against the wooden beams of the dojo, but in Hakuji’s mind, every cheer, laughter and jeer was only fuel for the already raging combustion in his heart, causing him to explode at any given moment. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles burned white, veins bulging against his skin.
Within the blink of an eye, in a swift, precise movement, Hakuji had already seized the plump leader by the throat, lifting his entire weight off the ground with only one arm.
The man’s legs kicked helplessly in the air, sandals slipping from his feet, his layers of robes sagging down and exposing the folds of flesh that made up his gut. His face, once smug and red from drunken boasting, now twisted into purple blotches as Hakuji’s iron grip closed tighter.
“W-what are you doing?!” the man rasped, spittle bubbling at the corners of his lips. His fat fingers clawed at Hakuji’s wrist, but it was like trying to pry apart stone. His eyes bulged, sweat dripping down his double chins as panic finally replaced arrogance. “L-let go!”
But Hakuji did not let go.
His eyes—those same eyes that once brimmed with warmth whenever Koyuki smiled, that softened whenever Keizo placed a hand on his shoulder—were now drained of all humanity.
They were voids, colder than steel, darker than the storm raging outside. His gaze carried no hesitation, no flicker of doubt, no recognition that the man in his grip was even human. It was the gaze of a predator staring into nothing but prey.
The fat leader gurgled, his voice breaking into a pitiful whimper. His lips quivered as though pleading, but Hakuji’s expression remained unchanged—unfeeling, detached, as though his heart had been ripped out and replaced with ice.
For years, people had known Hakuji as reckless yet kind, stubborn yet loyal. A boy who would fight bare-knuckled in the streets, not for greed, but to protect his father’s medicine. A boy who had once believed that fists could shield others, not destroy them. But at that moment, that boy was gone.
His movements were mechanical, cold as the rain slicing down outside. His arm didn’t tremble under the leader’s weight, his posture didn’t bend.
He stood firm, unyielding, like a mountain rooted into the earth. Even the sound of choking in his grasp didn’t stir him—it only deepened the pitiless shadow in his eyes.
“H-help… me…” the man wheezed, his beady eyes darting frantically toward his subordinates, their drunken grins now wiped clean.
Foam gathered at the corner of his mouth, his thick neck swallowed whole by Hakuji’s crushing hand. His legs kicked less and less, his body sagging like a puppet losing its strings.
“W-what are you all waiting for? Take him down!” another swordsman roared, slamming his cup aside. His cheeks were flushed red from sake, words slurred but desperate.
The men finally broke from their paralysis, blades rasping from their scabbards as they rushed forward. The floorboards trembled beneath their charge, but Hakuji did not move—not even to acknowledge them. His empty eyes were still locked on the writhing man in his grip, as though the world beyond that trembling neck no longer existed.
The fat man thrashed one last time, his stubby fingers scratching at Hakuji’s forearm, leaving shallow, useless red streaks. His eyes bulged, veins spreading purple across his cheeks, his tongue beginning to protrude from his lips in an ugly, pitiful sight.
Hakuji’s expression didn’t flicker. No pity. No hesitation. No humanity.
His grip tightened.
CRACK.
The sound echoed like a thunderclap in the silence of the dojo. A grotesque snap that silenced even the roaring rain outside for an instant. The leader’s body jerked once, then went limp, his head slumping to one side at an unnatural angle.
His lifeless weight hung heavy in Hakuji’s hand, his swollen face frozen in that grotesque mask of panic and disbelief.
Gasps tore through the dojo. A few swordsmen staggered back, faces pale, sake forgotten. The reek of alcohol mixed with the sharp tang of fear.
Hakuji finally released his grip, letting the corpse drop to the polished wooden floor. It landed with a dull, heavy thud, robes spilling out around the bloated body like a burst sack of grain.
The man who had moments earlier been laughing in arrogance was now just a heap of flesh, discarded without ceremony.
Hakuji lowered his hand slowly, his knuckles still white, tendons standing out like cords beneath his skin. His cold gaze shifted from the corpse to the circle of men that remained.
Those hollow eyes pierced each of them in turn, silent, merciless. He didn’t need words—the weight of his stare alone was enough to choke the breath from their throats.
The men trembled, blades shaking in their hands. Some gritted their teeth, forcing themselves forward despite the pit of dread in their stomachs.
Others hesitated, feet glued to the floor as the realization sank in: their leader, their so-called “master,” had been ended in less than a heartbeat.
And still, Hakuji didn’t move like a man—he moved like something beyond human. His chest rose and fell slowly, evenly, as though the act of killing had cost him nothing. Rainwater clung to his hair, sliding down his jawline, dripping onto the floor.
The silence after the neck snap was deafening, oppressive, broken only by the faint creak of blades trembling in unsteady grips.
Then, finally—Hakuji stepped forward. One step, heavy and deliberate. The floor groaned.
And the swordsmen, despite themselves, staggered back.
The swordsman who had roared before shouted again, his voice shrill with desperation.
“What are you all doing? He killed our master—don’t falter! Destroy him!”
Twenty… thirty blades hissed free of their sheaths, the metallic sound slicing through the tense air. They surged toward Hakuji from every angle, a tide of steel and shouting voices.
And then— the snowflake appeared.
It bloomed into existence around him, sharp and crystalline, its symmetrical glow pulsing with an otherworldly brilliance. To the swordsmen, nothing changed, but to Hakuji, the world itself slowed. Time stretched, stretching like a rubber band, elastic, giving him ample time to read every single movement in tiny detail, considering how sluggish the swordmen's movements were.
He could see their feet stampeding on the firm wooden planks, droplets of rain falling in splashing on their robes, blades carving sluggish trails through the air.
And around each man—an aura. Some faint and flickering, some dull and wavering, a few barely visible at all. Their fighting spirit, tampered and diluted by alcohol, dimmed like lanterns struggling to stay lit in the storm.
Not one carried the blazing fire Keizo once had. Not one was worthy.
Hakuji’s jaw clenched.
His fist clenched.
And then—he struck.
A single, devastating punch ripped through the stillness, faster than the lightning striking the ground outside. Five men crumpled before they even knew what hit them, their bodies flung across the dojo like dolls.
They slammed into the wooden wall with such force that the sturdy beams cracked, splintered—and collapsed, a whole section of the dojo caving in under the impact. Dust and splinters filled the air, mingling with the pounding of the rain outside.
The others hesitated, horror flashing in their eyes—but their drunken bravado and their comrade’s scream still drove them forward. They roared, charging, blades flashing under the flickering lantern light.
One lunged behind Hakuji, sword angled for the nape, the spot most men never protected. A fatal strike—if Hakuji were ordinary.
But the snowflake pulsed again. A line of light flared across his vision, showing him the blade’s exact trajectory before it even began its descent. Without turning his head, without sparing the man a glance, Hakuji swung his elbow backward.
CRACK.
The swordsman’s jaw shattered on impact, his body spinning through the air before crumpling into a heap, sword clattering from his hand.
The others pressed on, hacking, slashing, stabbing from every direction. But Hakuji did not dodge. He didn’t need to. Their blades were sluggish, predictable, pathetic compared to the brutal, unyielding training Keizo had drilled into his body.
Steel met skin—and bounced away. Or rather, it was struck aside, shattered by knuckles harder than iron, by kicks that landed with the weight of a hammer.
Every blow Hakuji delivered was merciless, crushing and precise. Ribs caved. Arms snapped. Men screamed, their voices drowning beneath the storm outside.
These weren’t warriors. These weren’t men of discipline, or loyalty, or honor. They were cowards who poisoned wells, who struck from shadows, who laughed over the murder of a good man.
They were all small fry to Hakuji, nothing more than flies and mosquitoes to be swatted aside. Their swords, their shouts, their drunken fury—none of it mattered. To him, they were incompetence made flesh, absurdity in robes, a living joke that brought only harm to the world.
And they deserved every punch he landed, every kick he drove into their ribs, every brutal strike he unleashed.
Guided by the snowflake, his movements were cold and precise, breaking bones, shattering faces, casting bodies across the floor as though they weighed nothing. Their attacks bounced off him like rain striking stone, a nuisance, nothing more.
If not for the rage boiling in his veins, he might have yawned. Fighting them was child’s play—an endless display of weakness before a man who had no room left for mercy.
Meanwhile, all this time, Hiroshi could sense something was wrong. Deep down, a gnawing unease twisted in his stomach. Something wasn’t right—something was terribly, unmistakably wrong.
There was no way that filling the buckets and the water gourd would take that long. Even for someone as heavily sleep-deprived and worn down as Hakuji, whose mind and body had been pushed to their absolute limits, this delay was unnatural.
Hiroshi glanced toward the small gourd that rested beside him. The water within it sloshed faintly as he touched it, half-filled at best.
The supply was dwindling, only a few shallow gulps remained, and the bucket they usually relied on stood nearly dry. He could feel his throat growing parched, but that was nothing compared to the anxiety creeping into his veins.
He wanted—desperately—to get up, to rush out into the storm and look for Hakuji. Every instinct inside him screamed that something had happened. But he didn’t move.
He couldn’t. His legs felt heavy, as though bound by iron chains, rooted firmly to the wooden floor. Hakuji’s words echoed in his mind, steady and commanding: “Stay. Watch over Koyuki.”
He had entrusted her to Hiroshi. And that trust weighed heavier than steel chains ever could.
Koyuki lay behind him, her breath shallow, her face pale against the futon. Hiroshi dared not look away for long, afraid she might fade from existence the moment his eyes wandered. The responsibility was crushing, but he forced himself to remain calm.
He told himself again and again that Hakuji would return, that the man who carried the weight of mountains on his shoulders could not possibly fall.
And yet… that unease refused to fade. The silence outside felt too heavy, only leaving the pitter patter of the downpour and the random strikes of thunder, crashing into the ground, startling the old man a bit each time. Each minute also felt like an hour, the wait just seemed endless.
But Hiroshi sat perfectly still, his fingers clenching tightly around the rim of the gourd as if holding on to the last remnants of hope. He must not falter. He must not let fear drive him away from his post. Hakuji had trusted him, and for Koyuki’s sake, for Hakuji’s sake—he would not waver.
Hakuji strode down the long wooden corridor, his drenched robes dragging across the floor, leaving streaks of muddy water in his wake. His fists swung methodically at his sides, each arc cutting through the air like a pendulum of destruction.
Every time a new swordsman leapt out from a doorway or lunged from behind, Hakuji’s arm snapped forward, automatically, without hesitation—knuckles colliding with jaw, ribs, or throat—sending bodies crumpling before they even had the chance to raise their blades.
The corridor became a graveyard of groans and splintered wood, his steady footsteps echoing louder than the storm outside. The snowflake lingered at the edge of his vision, pulsing, warning, guiding—but at this point, it hardly mattered. None of them were a match.
Finally, he reached the last room at the end. The sliding door was already open, and within the dim candlelight sat a man, kneeling on the tatami.
His back was straight, his sword resting sheathed across his knees. His hands pressed together in still meditation, his eyes closed as if the chaos outside didn’t exist at all.
Hakuji froze for the first time that night. This was no drunk reveler. No trembling coward. The air itself felt heavier around this man, his presence radiating a calm so deep it pressed against Hakuji’s burning rage like water against fire.
Hakuji charged forward, his fist cutting through the air with the force of a hammer meant to shatter bone, cutting through the fragile air between him and the unusual swordsman, snapping the air from breaking the sound barrier.
He thought he would crush this man before he even had the chance to react. But the moment his knuckles should have connected, the figure was gone.
The snowflake inside Hakuji’s vision flared, its patterns scattering like ice fractals across his sight. And even then—even with the world slowing to a crawl—this man’s speed slipped past him.
In the blink of an eye, the swordsman was behind him, sword half-drawn, the whisper of steel slicing through the air.
Instinct saved him. The snowflake blazed, guiding his muscles before his mind could register. He spun, arm jerking up just in time to catch the strike. Steel met flesh with a violent crack, sparks bursting where blade kissed bone.
Pain shot down his arm, but he didn’t flinch. He forced the blade away, teeth clenched, veins bulging in his temples.
Hakuji staggered back three steps, breath heavy, heart slamming against his ribs. This wasn’t like the drunken cowards he had swatted aside moments ago.
Their attacks had been laughable—wild, untrained, poisoned by liquor and arrogance. But this… this man was different. Every move carried precision. Purpose. Weight.
The swordsman stood from his meditation cushion, now fully facing him. He moved slowly, deliberately, his sword slipping free of its sheath with a hiss that seemed to carve silence into the room. He didn’t waste a single ounce of energy.
His posture was unshakable, feet rooted into the tatami like ancient roots gripping soil. His presence filled the corridor like a looming storm.
He was older, perhaps forty or fifty. A thick beard framed his hardened jaw, streaked with gray that only added to the severity of his expression. His eyes—sharp, unyielding—were nothing like the small, beady eyes of the bloated fraud Hakuji had just executed.
There was no drunken glaze, no hollow smugness. Only clarity. Discipline. A refined gaze honed through decades of combat.
His brows were furrowed, not in anger, but in focus. The way he held his sword—steady, reverent, not boastful—told Hakuji everything.
This was no coward who would poison wells or laugh over cheap victories. This was a warrior. A real one.
For the first time that night, Hakuji felt something pierce through the fog of his rage. A sliver of recognition. Of respect. Of danger.
He adjusted his stance, legs spread, arms raised. His fists trembled, not from fear, but from the raw energy surging through him. The snowflake glowed faintly at the edges of his vision, warning him. Urging him. This man was not like the rest. He could not be underestimated.
For the briefest moment, Hakuji’s fury battled with his instinct to hesitate. If he had met this man under any other circumstance—if tonight weren’t painted with blood and vengeance—perhaps he would have asked for his name.
Perhaps he would have bowed in respect, even sought wisdom from him. This man could have been a mentor, someone to sharpen his raw strength into true skill.
But no. That time was gone. That path was burned.
His fists tightened until his knuckles whitened, veins crawling along his arms like blue fire.
This man was standing between him and vengeance. And for that reason alone, he would fall.
Hakuji charged at him once again, his fists clenched with unrelenting force, but this time the swordsman did not sit still—he moved, charging back with his blade fully unsheathed.
The air around him seemed to ignite, the burning aura radiating from his body so intense that even Hakuji, in his storm of rage, could feel the heat pressing against his skin like the breath of a furnace.
The swordsman’s movements were sharp, deliberate. He used the same technique as before, vanishing from Hakuji’s direct line of sight and reappearing beside him.
But Hakuji was no longer blind to it—his snowflake vision blazed to life, the crystalline light illuminating the incoming strike. He braced himself, muscles coiled like steel cables, and deflected the attack just in time.
The clash rang out like thunder, steel against flesh, sparks exploding where blade met fist. Hakuji’s eyes narrowed, cold and focused, scanning for the faintest sign of weakness.
Then, suddenly, he saw it—the middle of the swordsman’s torso glowed, faint but unmistakable, the snowflake marking it as an opening, a chance.
He didn’t hesitate. He swung the same fist that had just deflected steel, pouring his entire strength into the strike.
The impact was brutal, but Hakuji did not stop there. With relentless precision, he unleashed a barrage of blows—punches and kicks raining down upon the glowing weak spot. Unlike the drunken swordsmen before, this man was no mere distraction.
He had skill, experience, and discipline—but even so, he was being pushed back, overwhelmed by Hakuji’s raw power.
The final strike sent him crashing backward, but not far. He landed heavily a few meters away, sword still in hand, aura burning hotter than ever. His body trembled, but his eyes remained sharp. This fight was far from over.
At the undestroyed dojo next door, Koyuki stirred faintly, her fever burning hotter than before. The cloth on her forehead, once cool and damp, was now hot, nearly scorching to the touch.
Hiroshi wrung it out again, but the gourd beside him was bone dry, not a single drop left to moisten the fabric. He bit his lip. He had been stalling, hoping Hakuji would return soon, but he could wait no longer.
The old man rose, joints aching as he stood, and moved toward the side entrance. He slid the door open and peered into the stormy night. Rain poured heavily, the downpour drumming against the roof tiles and splattering against the wooden veranda.
His gaze instinctively darted toward the waterfall—yet it was hidden behind a veil of rain and storm clouds, blurred beyond recognition. No silhouette at the base, no figure trudging back up the path with buckets in hand.
Only the faint shimmer of water cascading down, glimmering for an instant whenever lightning cracked across the sky.
Lowering his eyes, he saw the bucket and gourds neatly placed right outside the entrance, filled to the brim with clean water.
Fortuanately the veranda shielded the bucket and gourds from the frightful downpour, not allowing the clean water to mix with the murky rain water.
But the sight brought Hiroshi no relief. The boy who was supposed to be carrying them inside was nowhere to be seen.
“Hakuji…” he called out, voice trembling but clear, drowned almost instantly by the pounding rain. No reply came.
A weight pressed hard against his chest. Something was wrong.
He stepped fully outside, the cold rain soaking his robes in seconds, each drop striking his skin like needles. His sandals squelched against the mud as he raised his eyes, scanning past the trees, across the misty fields—and there, in the distance, his heart sank.
The rival dojo.
Even from afar, even with the rain clouding Hiroshi’s already blurred vision, its once-proud estate was nearly unrecognizable. Portions of the roof had caved inward, as though struck by a great force.
The outer walls were fractured and splintered, beams jutting out like broken bones. Lanterns inside flickered weakly in the storm, casting jerking shadows across the ruined frame. The destruction was unmistakable, violent and raw—something far beyond nature’s doing.
Hiroshi’s throat went dry. He didn’t need to see Hakuji amidst the wreckage to understand. The boy’s absence, the untouched buckets outside, and the ruined dojo across the way—all of it aligned into one undeniable truth.
His fears were confirmed.
Hakuji had gone, not for water—but for vengeance.
This time, the swordsman charged forward, not Hakuji. His steps shook the ground, his blade raised high, determination blazing in his gaze.
Hakuji drew in a slow breath, his stance lowering, every muscle taut with anticipation. He was braced—fully prepared for an attack.
The swordsman gritted his teeth as he rose, his beard dripping with sweat that mixed with the rain still clinging to his robes.
His aura flared brighter now—so hot, so intense, it seemed to warp the very air around him. It was not the erratic blaze of drunken fools, but a controlled inferno, a flame refined through decades of practice.
He leveled his sword, the tip gleaming under the dim lantern light. Then, with a thunderous roar, he charged.
But this time, his movements were different—sharper, faster, more impossible to track. Hakuji’s snowflake vision burst alive, every shard of its crystalline design igniting at once. To anyone else, the swordsman would have been a blur.
But to Hakuji, it was as though three swordsmen existed at once—one striking from the left, one from the right, and one head-on.
It was a technique designed to overwhelm, a style built to slice through openings no ordinary man could cover.
Steel came crashing from three directions. The glow of the sword arcs was blinding. Hakuji’s arms screamed as he blocked one strike, his shin cracked against the second, and his fist met the third head-on.
Sparks flew, ringing metal filled the hall, and the force sent tremors through the wooden beams above them.
He almost faltered. Almost.
The snowflake shone brighter, guiding him, showing him not the swordsman’s blades but the rhythm behind them. For every slash, there was a pause. For every strike, a fraction of imbalance.
And Hakuji seized it.
He absorbed the storm of cuts, his forearms sliced shallow, his robe torn in long, jagged lines, blood dripping but ignored. His eyes—icy, unblinking—never left the glowing weak point shimmering in the swordsman’s chest.
“Not this time,” Hakuji growled under his breath.
The next time the blade came crashing down, Hakuji caught it—not dodging, not flinching.
His calloused hand wrapped around the steel, blood instantly welling as the edge split into his palm. But he held on. His other fist crashed into the glowing opening with a crack like a thunderclap.
The swordsman staggered, but refused to fall. He spun, attempting another flurry, but Hakuji was already there. He unleashed a barrage—punch after punch, kick after kick, each one fueled by every ounce of rage and grief in his body.
The strikes pounded against the man’s torso, forcing the air from his lungs, shaking the bones beneath his flesh.
The swordsman’s aura burned as if to resist, his blade flashing desperately, but every strike grew weaker, slower, sloppier.
Finally, with one last roar, Hakuji’s fist connected dead-center with the glowing weak point. The impact launched the man backward, his body colliding with the far wall, splintering wood and rattling the beams of the dojo.
His sword clattered from his grip, embedding itself into the floorboards as he slumped, breathless, eyes wide with disbelief.
Hakuji stood still, chest heaving, his fists dripping red—blood not only from his enemies, but his own torn flesh.
The snowflake shimmered faintly before fading back into nothingness, leaving only the pounding of rain outside and the silence of the broken corridor.
The swordsman, formidable as he was, could not rise again.
For Hakuji, there was no triumph. No pride. Knowing that each and every one of them were gone, he was about to collapse at any moment, the rush of adrenaline, pushing him forward, fueling his rampage was over.
But he still had one single objective, this objective most prized to him, the one most cherishable to him.
He had to return to Koyuki, protect her, he must protect her….