Chapter Three: Techniques of Magnitude

If one were to evaluate Qiubai purely based on his swordsmanship, the only fitting description would be “solid foundation.” Upon this base, he possesses immense potential for further advancement, though what he needs most is a guide to lead him forward.

Some things are simply so; to truly refine one’s skills, it is inevitable to seek instruction from others.

Regardless of Ryoma’s current strength, judging solely by that previous strike, it was clear that the two of them possessed entirely different calibers as swordsmen.

In fact, at the very apex of his power, the swordsman Ryoma was undoubtedly among the world’s top-tier. If there was any regret in his life, perhaps it was only that his fate after death was rather miserable—his grave desecrated by some scoundrel.

As for the present Ryoma, he would not dwell on matters that ought not trouble him. Rather than scrutinizing the origins of the sword, he preferred to examine what the sword could truly achieve; and more important than the sword’s capabilities, was the nature of the one who wielded it.

The three of them rose and moved from the room to the courtyard outside.

Qiubai glanced upward; it was already nearing noon, and the sea breeze had long since dried the last traces of moisture from his body. He flicked his collar, feeling noticeably more refreshed.

“In terms of sword techniques, I have seven forms. Please instruct me,” he said to Ryoma, turning his gaze back. One must show deference to the accomplished, after all, and follow the proper forms… Even if, in truth, this was a kind of self-important ritual. By any measure, Qiubai was a classic self-taught swordsman; as for the etiquette between swordsmen, he hardly understood a thing.

Fortunately, Ryoma did not seem to be of the strict dojo school either. He simply nodded and said, “You may begin.”

As this was to be a session of “guidance,” or rather an observation and test, not a true battle, Ryoma had already drawn his blade in advance. It seemed he intended to take a mostly defensive stance. If this were a real fight… who could say if Qiubai’s bones were any harder than those of a Sea King?

From Qiubai’s perspective, the famed blade Autumn Water bore a beautiful temper line, but he only spared it a passing glance.

Though he had boasted of possessing seven sword forms, the unfortunate reality was that these could hardly be called seven distinct techniques, and even less could they be considered true swordsmanship.

Qiubai lunged forward, crossing a dozen paces in a flash to deliver his first strike to Ryoma. Holding his sword in a reverse grip, he twisted his wrist as he closed in, slashing toward Ryoma’s sword arm from the side—a difficult angle for most swordsmen to defend, likely enough to force an opponent back a step.

“First form, Swift Crossing.”

Qiubai was not in the habit of calling out his moves as he fought—at least not until now. But as this was a lesson in swordsmanship, he announced the name of his technique as he attacked, though it did neither of them any practical good.

Ryoma, however, was no ordinary swordsman. Without moving his feet, he raised his blade and parried with the flat of Autumn Water. At the moment steel struck steel, his brows knitted in surprise.

His first impression: heavy.

Qiubai, despite his slight, almost frail frame, unleashed a force in his attack far greater than expected. Had Ryoma not read his intentions at the last moment, that opening strike might well have yielded unforeseen consequences.

From this single exchange, Ryoma could see that Qiubai’s style was the most direct and violent kind of “crushing force” swordplay. For a self-taught swordsman, this was not so surprising.

Such a pursuit of brute force, forsaking finesse and even disregarding the wear on one’s weapon, was a style that would destroy even the finest swords in short order.

Indeed, Qiubai treated every sword as if it were disposable.

The foundation for this, evidently, was a physique honed since childhood. Ryoma had misjudged him at first, assuming he was a technical swordsman, only to discover that he was in fact the opposite—a champion of raw strength.

If Qiubai were to hear these musings, he would surely dismiss them out of hand. In truth, he had never been satisfied with his own strength. Compared vertically, this world had old men who could cross half the Calm Belt alone; compared horizontally, there were twelve-year-old children elsewhere who could slap open the twelve-ton gates of their homes.

He was still far behind.

As for his technique—if one were honest, Qiubai was better suited to wielding an axe, and a massive one at that, rather than a sword.

But before Ryoma could finish pondering whether Qiubai’s strength was his entire arsenal, he was struck by another realization: the so-called “forms” were less about technical distinctions than simply the number of swords being used.

After the first strike achieved nothing, Qiubai quickly withdrew and spun into a second attack. This time, his hands moved to his sides, both gripping swords, and slashed at Ryoma’s ribs.

“Second form, Shared Sin.”

Dual wielding?

Ryoma frowned. For swordsmen who pursued mastery, wielding multiple weapons was generally frowned upon.

Was Qiubai actually using two swords? Certainly not. As Ryoma looked again, Qiubai had gripped the sword in his right hand with his teeth, and produced a new blade in his hand.

A thousand “One Thousand Swords” were perhaps used just like this.

“Third form, Tenfold Intent.”

So now it was three swords. If he stopped here, it would be nothing more than a blatant imitation—red-haired stealing the green-haired’s path, leaving the green-haired with nowhere to go.

His every move seemed to beg forgiveness… but Qiubai was not finished yet.

“Fourth form, Season’s Bond.”
“Fifth form, Peak’s Ascent.”
“Sixth form, Path’s Wheel.”
“Seventh form… Sunlit Day.”

Before long, Qiubai assumed a strange stance, balancing on his left leg. His hands were empty, but his entire body bristled with seven gleaming blades, like a human hedgehog.

His waist and right thigh, the crook of his right knee, his right elbow, the juncture of his right shoulder and neck, his left elbow, beneath his left armpit, and one in his mouth… To put it plainly, this was a “Seven-Sword Style.”

Ryoma blinked. In all his years, he had never seen anything like this.

A true eye-opener.

Qiubai spun around Ryoma, transforming into a whirling, high-speed gear.

Pursuing speed and power, his attacks were direct and simple, savage and chaotic. Amidst the dizzying flurry, he unleashed a veritable storm of blows. This was Qiubai’s “swordsmanship.”

It was one of the “benefits” he had received—a C-rank skill acquired from a certain individual.

“Name: Eight-Sword Style Technique
Rank: C
Description: A school and set of techniques created and used by a certain rap master. Allows you to freely control your body while grasping the secrets of the ‘sword,’ even achieving the legendary unity of man and blade.
Note 1: Although you possess only seven swords, it is still called the Eight-Sword Style.
Note 2: Lacking a certain energy called ‘Cha—beep—ra’ greatly limits the power of this technique, so it can only serve as a basic sword skill. The Eight-Sword Style is rated accordingly, at C-rank or lower in actual effectiveness.”