Startled, he dropped the sword again, his resolve momentarily shaken.

Soren’s expression was urgent but not as dire as he’d feared. “There’s a bit of a problem with the tournament. We don’t have enough players to make the brackets even. We need one more participant, and I thought you might be willing to join. Even if you lose immediately, it would help us a lot.”

Fear gripped him, his hands growing clammy. The idea of fighting in front of others, of potentially failing and being judged, made his chest tighten. He tried to find his voice, but the words seemed to stick in his throat.

Seeing his hesitation, Soren added gently, “It’s okay to be nervous. Just showing up would help a lot. No one expects perfection.”

He swallowed hard, his mind racing with doubts. “I… I’m not ready. What if I mess up?”

Soren gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “It’s alright to be scared, Oni. You are just a beginner. What can we expect from you? Prove yourself from tomorrow.”

He took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside him. “Okay,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I'm okay.”

Soren’s face broke into a relieved smile. “Thank you. This means a lot to us.”

As he walked into the arena, he felt a mix of anxiety and determination. He spotted a paper with the tournament brackets, his name hastily scribbled in pen. The sight of his name there made his heart break. He wasn't worthy of picking up the sword.

Participants were already warming up, some chatting excitedly while others focused on their weapons. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation.

But once he entered the room, everyone turned their heads towards him, whispering. He shrank in complete fear, the reminder of his school life flashing before him.

Before he could bow and leave, Soren jumped into action, pulling him to a ring where two traditional swordsmen were fighting.

Their eyes were locked onto each other, intense focus evident in their expressions. The taller swordsman attempted a sweeping horizontal slash, but the stockier fighter ducked and rolled, coming up with a quick upward strike that was narrowly blocked. The clash of steel rang out, echoing in the arena as the crowd watched in awe.

Soren clapped him on the back, snapping his focus back to him. “These two are our best intermediate students. This is the ring you will be competing in. Don't worry, everyone is nicer than it seems. It's just that here, respect isn't given. It's earned.”

Soren’s eyes flashed with excitement. “Oh, watch that.”

He turned his attention back to the fight. He observed the taller swordsman closely and, in a moment of clarity, saw the next five moves unfold in his mind. The taller swordsman would be backed up against the edge of the ring, and then…

The stockier swordsman moved with beautiful precision, his footwork impeccable. He advanced with a series of quick, calculated steps, forcing his opponent to retreat. Each move was a masterful blend of offense and defense, seamlessly transitioning from one to the next.

In the final exchange, the taller swordsman attempted a desperate slash to regain control, but the stockier fighter anticipated it perfectly. He sidestepped the attack and delivered a swift strike to the taller man’s midsection, ending the match.

The crowd erupted in applause, and the taller swordsman bowed respectfully to his opponent, acknowledging his defeat.

Soren turned to him, a knowing smile on his face. “See that? It’s not just about strength or speed. It’s about strategy, precision, and the ability to read your opponent. Well, let's get you ready for your match. We only have a few more minutes after all.”

Soren started to lead him to a storage room filled with various weapons and training equipment. From a hidden corner, Soren carefully retrieved a beautiful sword, its craftsmanship evident in the intricate designs etched along the blade and hilt.

His eyes widened as Soren handed it to him. “Why would you give this to someone like me?” he asked, his voice filled with confusion.

Soren looked at him silently for a moment, then placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Use it with gratitude during the fight,” he said, his tone carrying a weight of unspoken meaning. “Remember, respect isn’t given. It’s earned.”

In the next few minutes, he found himself stepping onto the ring, the beautiful sword clutched tightly in his hands. The announcer called out his name, “Oni,” and he received polite applause, though he couldn’t help but overhear the whispers in the crowd mocking his chosen name.

Feeling his cheeks flush, he shifted his gaze to his opponent. “Amane Hakusa,” the announcer declared, and the crowd erupted in genuine applause. It was clear that Amane was well-regarded and respected.

Amane stepped forward, his movements confident and fluid. He gave Oni a respectful nod, which Oni returned, albeit nervously. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. This was his moment to prove that he belonged somewhere, to earn the respect that he so desperately sought. As no one would care about his face, but would only be interested in his swordsmanship.

As he raised his gaze to meet his opponent, the sight of the blade’s tip and Amane’s poised stance made his stomach churn. A wave of nausea hit him, and for a moment, he felt the familiar grip of fear tightening around his heart.

But then, he shook his head fiercely, trying to dislodge the dark memories. “Trauma is only for the weak,” he muttered under his breath, trying to convince himself.

He remembered crying to his mother when she sent him away with an unknown man, a stranger who would become his mentor and guardian. Over time, his pain had transformed into unwavering respect, surpassing even the bonds of blood. The person who had taught him how to wield weapons. His one and only master.

“Begin.”

He took a deep breath, focusing on the sword in his hand. As he adjusted his stance, he realized the significance of the moment. This wasn’t just a fight; it was a chance to honor the blade and the teachings of his master. With renewed determination, he decided to start with his master’s opening position, showing his gratitude and respect.

Steadying himself, he adopted the familiar stance, his body aligning with the principles his master had instilled in him. When did he think he couldn't pick up a sword again? The mindset of a swordsman, or even a mage, was to never fail through constant work. Yes, he thought. That's what he'd been missing.

He faced Amane, his focus sharp. As the match began, he found that he could read Amane’s movements with surprising clarity. He could predict the direction of each strike, the flow of each move. But his body, untrained and unpracticed, couldn’t keep up. His attempts to parry were sluggish, his counterattacks weak.

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In a matter of moments, Amane’s strikes broke through his defenses. He felt the sting of each blow, his grip on the sword faltering. Finally, a well-placed strike disarmed him, and the sword clattered to the ground.

The announcer’s voice rang out, “One match to Amane!” The crowd cheered, but he barely heard them.

They centered back up. As the announcer declared Amane the winner of the first match, Oni felt a hollow emptiness settling over him. The realization that he hadn’t been able to land a single hit left him feeling defeated.

Before he could dwell on his disappointment, the announcer’s voice boomed through the arena. “Oni and Amane, prepare for the second match!”

With a heavy heart, Oni squared off against Amane once more, his mind clouded with doubt and uncertainty.

As the second match unfolded, Amane’s attacks came with ferocity, each strike calculated to exploit any weakness. Despite his efforts to keep up, He found himself constantly on the defensive, barely able to counter Amane’s onslaught.

With each clash of their wooden swords, he felt his confidence waning. His movements became more hesitant, his defenses faltering under the relentless barrage. Backed against the wall, he struggled to maintain his footing, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

In a brief moment of respite, Oni saw an opening—a chance to strike back. But as he raised his sword, doubt and hesitation gripped him. The opportunity slipped away, leaving him feeling powerless and defeated.

Finally, Amane’s final strike broke through his defenses, knocking the sword from his grip. As he slumped against the wall, defeated, Amane’s sneer of triumph was unmistakable. “You’re nothing but a beginner,” he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. “It's a stain on my honor to fight you today.”

“Two to Amane, Zero to Oni!”

He picked up the beautiful sword, walking back to his post.

As the final match loomed, Oni’s mind swirled with doubts and hesitations. He remembered Soren’s words, urging him to use the sword with gratitude and respect. And as he glanced at its polished surface, a figure appeared in its reflection—and gasped.

He looked around, trying to spot her yellow hair, and there she was—the umbrella girl. She stood at the edge of the crowd, her gaze fixed on him. For a moment, their eyes met, and he felt a jolt of recognition. But just as quickly as it had appeared, she looked away, blending back into the crowd as if she had never been there.

As he heavily breathed in and out, his eyes became bloodshot with pain. Suddenly, he found himself transported to a serene waterfall, the cold water cascading around him like a soothing embrace. Sitting before him was his master, calmly eating an apple.

“You are a master in every form,” his master began, his voice echoing in the tranquility of the waterfall. “You can perform every technique to perfection, yet you can never surmount me.”

He listened intently, the words sinking deep into his consciousness.

“Real swordsmen fall into 5 forms,” his master continued, gesturing to the elements around them. “The earth, the fire, the wind, and the water. But there is one more, one that is as powerful as the others—the absence of such energy. It is the void, the one that takes away from what others have. When you don’t stick to the basics and shape your style to your true nature, then you will find the power within.”

As his Master’s words resonated within him, a sudden, intense pain surged through his body, causing him to instinctively clutch his mask. Agony overwhelmed his senses, and he let out a guttural yell, the sound echoing through the tranquil waterfall scene.

In that moment of excruciating pain, the world around him seemed to blur, consumed by red lines. Every gaze, including that of the announcer, fixated on him with wide eyes.

Through the haze of pain, he had a revelation. He was just that—empty, a vessel waiting to be filled. And in that emptiness lay his true power, the ability to channel anything.

With newfound clarity and determination, he barked out, “I’m ready for the last match.”

As he stood there, he made a silent promise to honor the beautiful patterns of the blade by channeling himself fully into the fight. He took a big breath, eyes closed.

“Stance One.”

Then, in a flash of movement, Amane lunged forward, his adorned sword slicing through the air.

His eyes immediately opened, bloodshot. The sword rushed at him, but he twitched his neck, and it passed by. His sword quickly bulleted forward, grazing Amane’s helmet. Amane jumped back, bringing his sword to the opening stance.

There was only one way he could win with such a weak body. With lightning agility, he twisted his body backward, narrowly dodging Amane’s thrust. The crowd gasped in disbelief as his movements defied expectations.

Closing the distance between them in a heartbeat, he surged forward, his voice barely above a whisper as he uttered, “Void..”

Amane’s eyes widened in shock as Oni’s sword found its mark with precision, catching him off guard at close range. Amane stared in shock.

He immediately realized his overextension and pulled himself up, mock-slashing across his face. The match was over.

As the announcer declared the score, “Two for Amane, one for Oni,” the tension in the arena heightened. Amane, unwilling to accept defeat, dismissed his victory as a fluke, his confidence unwavering.

In the next round, Amane unleashed a barrage of lightning-fast strikes, aiming to overwhelm him with his speed and precision. But he remained composed, his movements deliberate and slow.

With each deliberate motion, Oni blocked Amane’s strikes effortlessly, using minimal effort to neutralize his opponent’s attacks. At one point, he had blocked two strikes at once. Gradually, he began to push Amane back, forcing him towards the edge of the mat.

As Amane struggled to regain his footing, he whispered under his breath, “Emptiness.”

Amane’s eyes widened in realization as his strength seemed to surge, his movements imbued with a newfound power. With a final, decisive push, he sent Amane stumbling backward, his balance shattered.

The crowd erupted into cheers as he claimed victory, leveling the score at two matches each.

As the final match unfolded, Amane launched a relentless assault, each strike aimed with deadly precision. But he met every blow head-on, his resolve unshaken.

With each clash of their swords, he seamlessly transitioned between the eight stances, his movements fluid and graceful. With each stance, he unleashed a different aspect of his strength, overwhelming Amane with his versatility and skill.

Despite Amane's best efforts, he found himself unable to keep up with his strikes. With a swift series of strikes, he seized control of the match, his blade a blur of motion.

With each clash of their swords, Oni seamlessly transitioned between the eight stances, his movements fluid and graceful. Each stance unleashed a different aspect of his strength, overwhelming Amane with his versatility and skill.

Despite Amane's best efforts, he found himself unable to keep up with Oni's strikes. With a swift series of blows, Oni seized control of the match, his blade a blur of motion.

“I steal your skills,” Oni whispered, his eyes focused and determined.

“Yes…” he thought, feeling a surge of clarity. “That's what he meant.” It had been five years since he had a breakthrough in the arts, but his late master and that girl from the other day—they had protected him. They had brought back his confidence. He remembered training under the waterfalls, trying to understand the fluidity of his master’s sword, but he could never quite grasp it. It wasn’t his true nature.

His true nature was one of simpleness, of whittling down the opponent quickly and capitalizing on their weaknesses. His true nature was one of emptiness. Maybe that was why he had an affinity for darkness, an element denoting the lack of light.

The adrenaline rush began to wear off, and he felt dizzy. The world spun around him, and he collapsed, the exhaustion finally overtaking him.

When he woke up, the tournament was over, and the medals were being handed out. He realized he was bare-chested and quickly checked if his mask was still on. It was.

He bowed, handing over the blade that was next to him, thanking Soren for the opportunity. “The fight helped me in more ways than one.”

Soren smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You are truly a swordsman. Next time, join us for the advanced classes. We’ll focus on strength conditioning.”

He nodded, gratitude evident in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, adjusting his mask as he walked out the door, but Soren just stared at him leaving, letting out a sigh.

“He had Takashi Yamamoto’s style, but the subtleties were completely different.”

“Didn’t that master die in a fire?” Another person coming from the building asked.

Soren looked shocked. “A pity. I would have loved to meet him.