The Greatest Samurai in History (4)

The aged sword master, Gensinsai, swung his blade again today.

He had only one objective: to forge a technique capable of slaying the immortal who had handed him a crushing, humiliating defeat over a decade ago.

Swish—

A glinting blue blade danced through the empty air. It ripped through the void with elusive, phantom trajectories designed to mesmerize human eyes. Watching from the shadows, his disciple could not help the breathless exclamation that spilled from his lips.

"Magnificent as always, Master...!"

To his eyes, his master's swordsmanship was already flawless. Yet Gensinsai had never paused his grueling training for a single day. The disciple could only look up to him with absolute reverence.

Swish— Fwip—

His master's blade was fundamentally different from the art practiced by the disciples. It was never forged to duel mere men. It was a sword meant to kill an immortal, and Gensinsai had finally seized the thread of insight he needed.

At its core, ordinary swordsmanship severed the bonds of human flesh. But to kill an immortal, one had to cut through something far beyond the physical vessel.

"Mmh..."

The moment pure moonlight bathed his frame, Gensinsai ceased his swings. Settling beneath the sprawling boughs of a tree, he slipped into deep meditation. No one knew when the shift had occurred, but these days, he spent far more hours submerged in contemplation than swinging his katana. Still, he remembered the reason with razor clarity: to grasp a fresh revelation about whatever lay beyond mortal flesh.

Tonight, however, unwelcome intrusions disturbed his quiet.

"..."

The metallic stench of blood drifted upon the night breeze, accompanied by distant, frantic shrieks. Gensinsai cracked his eyes open and cast a quiet gaze at the disciple standing watch. Catching his master's unspoken intent at once, the young man bowed deeply.

"I shall clean up the vermin."

"..."

As if speaking were a waste of precious breath, Gensinsai shut his eyes and returned to his meditation without a word. Yet beneath that cold silence lay unquestioned trust.

"Hmph."

Leaving the old master to his inner void, Gensinsai's foremost disciple, Takeuchi, strode into the night to butcher the insects who dared disturb his master's peace.

Deep within the manor, raised voices echoed through a bedchamber adorned with lavish silks and gilded ornaments.

"Pack it faster! Take everything you can carry!" the family head barked at his servants, both hands already clutching heaps of gold.

"P-Please, Master, we can't carry any more," pleaded a servant whose knees trembled under a mountain of treasure.

To the master's ears, it sounded like pathetic whining. His face flushed scarlet with fury as he stomped over.

"You worthless fool!"

He kicked the servant's legs out from under him. Strapped to a crushing bundle of stolen valuables, the man collapsed under the dead weight, striking his head against the wooden floorboards with a sickening crack. He didn't get back up.

The family head spun toward another servant who had been nervously backing away while swallowing hard. "Hey! You pick this up too!"

"What?! M-Me, my lord?!"

"You want to end up like him?!" He jabbed an accusatory finger at the unconscious, bleeding servant on the floor.

The servant had no choice. Trembling, he bent down to obey.

"Good! Once it's all packed, we move!"

The head of the house finalized his escape plan. All that mattered were his life and his family's wealth. So long as he had gold, restoring his noble standing would be child's play. But he was already far too late.

"Where do you think you're going with my stuff?"

A blood-drenched demon had materialized right before his eyes.

"Eeeeeeek!"

Crash! Horrified by the terrifying specter, the family head tripped over his own robes and tumbled backward.

"Aaaaargh!"

"Run for your lives!"

"It's a monster!"

"A demon descended from the mountains!"

The servants dropped their heavy bundles in sheer panic and scattered like roaches. Left behind in the chamber was a veritable mountain of gold, the master of the house, and me.

"H-Heeek...!"

I looked down at the aristocrat as he frantically scrambled on all fours, trying to scrape scattered gold nuggets back into his robes. "Tsk, tsk. What a rotten bastard. Trying to steal my loot right under my nose?"

That snapped him out of his terror long enough to flare up in indignant rage. "What rubbish! You filthy bandit scum! This is all mine! Treasures I gathered with my own two hands!"

"Yeah, well, it's mine now."

Smack!

I drove a fist straight into his face.

"Gaaah!"

His nose crunched, gushing a crimson fountain across his chin. He clutched his broken snout with both hands and wailed like a toddler. "A grown-ass man crying over a little bloody nose. Embarrassing."

As I sneered down at the nobleman blubbering pathetically on the floorboards, an airy laugh drifted into the room.

"Haha. Indeed. Quite a pathetic spectacle. An insect squirming in the dirt is amusing to behold."

I turned toward the voice and spotted a man clad in a crisp blue uniform. Handsome features, confident gait, smug posture. If he weren't so damn short, I might have felt an ounce of intimidation.

"Wouldn't you agree, bandit leader?"

"Who're you calling a bandit leader? I'm an honorable rogue carrying on the noble legacy of Hong Gil-dong."

The man burst into unrestrained laughter. "Haha! A righteous bandit! Such grandiloquent rhetoric! In the end, you're merely a violent thug plundering the precious lives and property of others."

A self-righteous prig who picked apart every single syllable. A brief exchange was all it took to realize this guy had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a rancid personality. "Are you the senior martial brother those ill-mannered brats were babbling about?"

"Pfft— Senior brother?" He smirked with dripping condescension. "Did those wretches truly dare refer to me as their senior brother?! Haha! How utterly laughable!"

Scorn and mockery twisted his handsome face. "They were mere maggots. Lacking true talent, they clung desperately to Master, begging for whatever scraps fell from his table. Parasites, nothing more."

"Calling your own comrades insects. You really are a piece of work."

"Rich words coming from a butcher who slaughters human beings like cattle."

He must have seen the bloody trail I carved on my way here. Yet strangely, there was no condemnation in his tone. If anything, he was looking at me with greasy admiration. I grimaced at that sickening, intense gaze.

"The hell are you trying to build weird rapport for? What, are you gay?"

"Hm? Gay? Do you mean a practitioner of the male love?" He tilted his head as if puzzled by my wording.

"Yeah, you queer bastard."

"Fascinating. I fail to see why male love should be used as a derogatory slur."

"What's there not to get? It's gross."

He looked at me with genuine pity, as if gazing upon an uncultured savage. "Is the refined pursuit of male intimacy not the legitimate, exquisite privilege of the nobility?"

He laughed so casually, stating it like the most natural universal truth, that I was the one thrown off balance. Then he eyed me with an incredulous, teasing smirk.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Do you mean to say you do not share love with men?"

"Barf!"

"How curious. I was under the impression our temperaments were remarkably aligned."

"Aligned my ass! I'd rather drop dead right now than hang out with an ass-bandit like you!"

"Is that so? Then die."

Shing. He drew his katana from his hip with fluid grace.

"The only one dying here is you, you filthy sodomite."

He made the first move.

Swish—!

A silver streak traced an icy, deceptive arc straight toward my throat. I met the blade with a smooth parry and sneered. "Nothing different from the small fry I just crushed."

"We shall see if you can keep flapping that loose tongue for long."

His swordplay shifted. It was no longer a straightforward strike meant solely for speed; it morphed into an unpredictable, undulating trajectory. His blade seemed to dive from the right, so I raised my guard to meet it—only for a razor-sharp bite of steel to lunge at my left flank.

"Hah!"

Snapping my head aside with a sharp grunt, I barely dodged the slash and answered with an immediate counter-swing. But as if anticipating the riposte, he glided backward with an easy smirk.

"So, you can read the path of my sword."

"Nope. Total dumb luck. Couldn't see a single thing," I retorted, hoping he'd let his guard down.

Naturally, he didn't bite.

"Liar." His piercing gaze narrowed into slits. "Had you failed to track my edge, your head would have parted from your shoulders on the first pass. You might deceive brainless vermin with that glib tongue, but you cannot fool me."

"I'm really not all that."

"A swordsman converses through his steel."

His vigilance sharpened by a degree, yet his smug aura never wavered. In other words, he was still looking down on me.

"My name is Takeuchi. Remember it well, for it belongs to the swordsman who will take your life."

"Name's Fujiwara Seongjin. Memorize it yourself, 'cause it's the name of the guy about to lop off your head."

"Fujiwara...?"

The instant confusion flickered across his face, I lunged.

Whoosh—!

I brought my katana down with enough raw force to cleave a mountain in two.

Clang!

He checked the blow with frustrating ease. But I had no intention of stopping at a single strike.

Boom—! Whoosh—!

I unleashed a relentless barrage, giving him zero room to counterattack. Yet time and again, my blade was deflected. Having grown accustomed to my rhythm, the bastard even had the audacity to praise me mid-duel.

"Remarkable... I cannot find an opening to strike back. Every counter I prepare is preemptively smothered... Is this your martial art? Quite an impressive technique."

"Shut your damn trap and fight. Focus on your neck before I carve it off."

He maintained his irritating composure. "You possess genuine skill. Had we met under different circumstances, I might have recommended you as Master's second disciple."

"Bullshit."

It was starting to piss me off. Speed, strength—I possessed absolute superiority in every physical metric. Yet my blade refused to bite. And I knew exactly why: pure technique. This arrogant prick had nothing over me except his pretty face and his polished swordsmanship, and he was using that single advantage to strut around like a peacock.

Which meant I only had one thing to do: steal his technique.

Boom—! Swish—!

Steel clashed against steel as we traded blows. I stopped trying to batter him down with relentless momentum. Instead, I struck, he parried. He struck, I parried. I repeated the cycle over and over, drawing out the exchange until beads of sweat glistened on his brow.

"Impressive. Just beneath me... no, perhaps an even match. I retract my earlier offer. I will not recommend you to Master after all."

I sneered at him mid-clash. "Why? Scared I'll steal your spot?"

His smug mask shattered instantly into pure fury. "Watch your filthy mouth!"

The only reason this aloof aristocrat had suddenly lost his cool was simple: he could no longer afford to take me lightly.

Whoosh—!

Clang!

"Khk...!"

"What's wrong? Not so easy anymore, is it?"

Grit grinding in his teeth, he slashed with venomous intent. But I tilted my katana, casually pressing against the flat of his blade to guide his strike off-course. Now it was my turn to attack. Anticipating the blow, he braced into a defensive stance.

Except I didn't swing.

Instead, I just stood there, sneering at him as he froze in an awkward, hunched posture, desperately trying to block a phantom strike that never came.

"Scared?"

"..."

He froze, eyes wide with disbelief, as if rejecting the humiliation of his own instinctual dread. "Absurd... My guard was more than sufficient to deflect your blade. Why... why couldn't I read you?!"

"Because I got used to you," I replied flatly. "Every trajectory of your sword? I've ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠memorized them all."

"Do not mock me! Even I, acknowledged as a genius by Master himself, cannot perform such a feat!"

"Let me show you something neat."

I changed my stance. Gone was the heavy, straightforward assault aimed bluntly at vital organs. In its place was a mesmerizing, fluid dance of steel designed to deceive the human eye.

Takeuchi's pupils dilated in sheer shock. Naturally. I was executing his own signature swordsmanship.

And I wasn't just copying it.

Whoosh—! Clang!

Swish— Claaang!

"Kh-Kaaahk! I cannot block it! How?! This is the art I have forged over an entire lifetime! Why can't I predict its trajectory?!"

At first, my technique was an exact replica of his. But with every subsequent swing, its velocity and destructive force evolved at a terrifying pace. I was refining his life's work in real-time. In less than ten minutes, I had overtaken decades of his blood, sweat, and tears.

"Im-Impossible... Everything I am... denied so easily...?!"

To be fair, he was an exceptional swordsman. He was the first person in this world who had managed to parry my blade cleanly. But exceptional wasn't enough to surpass me.

I was an authentic genius certified by the system itself. Before me, even a prodigy lauded his whole life as a prodigal swordsman was nothing more than an ordinary mortal.

Whoosh—!

SNAP!

Takeuchi's katana snapped cleanly in two. Blood welled from his torn webbed fingers, but he refused to release his shattered hilt.

"Haaah... haaah..." Panting raggedly, he stared down at the fractured stump of his steel and muttered, "So... in the eyes of another, I was merely an insect after all—"

Squelch.

My blade glided through his neck without a whisper of resistance. Head and torso parted with surgical precision.

I rolled my shoulders quietly, reviewing the duel in my mind. "Not a bad style."

Still, it wasn't quite what I needed. His art was classified as an illusion sword, leaning far too heavily on deceptive flourishes. It wasn't the kind of raw swordsmanship I favored. "Wonder what his master's blade looks like."

Sheathing my unblemished katana, I set off. My next destination: the master of the genius Takeuchi. I had no idea where the old man was hiding, but it didn't matter. I had an excellent guide.

"Aaaaargh! Lord Gensinsai! Save meeeee!"

The moment Takeuchi fell, the family head had scrambled to his feet and bolted, shrieking at the top of his lungs. As I moved to trail him, a sudden thought struck me.

"Gotta bring a souvenir."

I reached down and scooped up Takeuchi's severed head by the topknot. If I showed this to his master, the old man might fly into a rage. And an enraged swordsman always swings a blunter edge—probably.

"Hmm..."

Looking at the dangling head, my eyes narrowed. A sudden, irresistible urge welled up from deep within my otaku soul.

"Lord Takeuchi...! Why has only your head returned?!"

Sob!

I locked eyes with the severed head and let out a melodramatic wail, mimicking Cao Cao weeping over Guan Yu's severed head. It was my own twisted way of showing respect to the strong. After all, Takeuchi was the first warrior to ever block my strike. Plus, I got to cross another classic historical reenactment off my bucket list. Two birds with one stone.

As I stood there switching between theatrical sobs and self-satisfied chuckles, Tokiyasu shook his head and muttered under his breath, "...He's completely lost his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mind."

Behind him, the rest of the militia nodded in silent, horrified agreement. Yet not a single man questioned my leadership or took a step back. If anything, their eyes burned with even deeper reverence and fanatic loyalty.

It was only natural. This was the Heian era. Unlike the modern world, a leader's worth wasn't measured by mercy or compassion.

Absolute violence and unyielding authority. So long as I possessed those two, they would bow in absolute obedience—even if the devil himself sat upon the throne.