Chapter Four: Technique and the Way

In terms of attack frequency, Qiubai could wield his sword with the relentless intensity of a machine gun. This kind of storm-like onslaught, if used against swordsmen of his own level, could easily suppress them, perhaps even overwhelm them entirely. In fact, his technique seemed particularly suited for chaotic melees.

His dazzling, lightning-fast strikes, too swift for the eye to follow, would make him a terrifying force if thrown into a crowd—an efficient meat grinder, without question.

Broadly speaking, though this was considered a “skill,” after fifteen years since birth, Qiubai had entirely made it his own. He was not merely adapting; he was reshaping it, molding every attack into the form most natural and familiar to himself.

Thus, from Ein’s third-person perspective, Qiubai appeared as a fervent furnace of steel, scattering sparks in all directions.

Swords, after all, are sharp yet fragile weapons. Unless it was a black blade, practicality was essential. But Qiubai’s straightforward and brutal fighting style paid no heed to the risk of damage.

In fact… they really were being damaged.

Even blades of the “Thousand Blades: Shear” quality could not withstand such high-frequency punishment; swords would occasionally shatter in his hands, but Qiubai remained unfazed, discarding the broken blade and replacing it with a new one without pause.

Yet… even under this almost “savage” barrage, Ryoma was utterly unshaken.

On the surface, it seemed as if Qiubai was whirling around, hacking away, but only because his opponent did not counterattack. Ultimately, this was a lesson, not a true fight to the death.

“Your physical abilities are astonishing—both your strength and speed surpass what any swordsman your age should possess,” Ryoma remarked as he parried Qiubai’s assault.

“However, I do have some questions. First, why are all your attacks slashes?”

From the very start, nearly all of Qiubai’s moves had been slashes, never thrusts.

In swordsmanship, slashing is mainly for wounding, but for truly lethal intent, thrusts are far more effective. As one’s skill increases, the distinction between the lethality of a slash or a thrust fades, but for beginners, the difference is vast.

Qiubai was clearly not yet at the level where he could ignore such a difference.

Even an apprentice swordsman, wielding a wooden or bamboo blade, could kill with a thrust, while a slash would rarely have such potential.

“Second, why do all your attacks avoid the vital points?”

Qiubai’s strikes were fast and fierce, yet they always missed the vulnerable spots.

Uninterrupted, Qiubai replied—though, as with all of their kind, he had mastered the art of conversation even with something clenched between his teeth.

“It’s merely for personal reasons… In my view, swords have three distinctions: the sword that doesn’t decide victory, the sword that does, and the sword that determines life and death. The techniques for each are different.”

In other words, the killing moves Ryoma mentioned were not meant for sparring, no matter how unlikely it was that he could truly kill Ryoma here.

“So this is to prevent your sword from becoming an instrument of slaughter?” Ryoma asked. To seek power while imposing such limits on oneself, refusing to kill indiscriminately—such a mindset was admirable.

Everyone pursues strength, but how many do so without blind obsession?

“No…”

But that was not his true reason. Qiubai denied Ryoma’s assumption outright.

“The outcome may be similar, but my motivation is far less noble… It is simply a matter of limitation. To reserve the ‘slaying sword’ for when it is truly needed, so that when it is used, it is powerful enough.”

A sword is a weapon for killing, and while it can take lives, only with caution and seriousness does it become the “certain-kill sword.”

His words made it plain—he was indeed from Whale Island, perhaps even from the village called Kuruta.

Yet what he spoke of was less about sword technique and more about the way of the sword itself—not how to use it, but when and why.

“Name…” Ryoma asked. He no longer commented on Qiubai’s philosophy.

Qiubai’s explanation was far more convincing than any swordsman’s musings on compassion or the endless pursuit of a sharper blade. He was indeed restraining himself, but only in preparation for an eventual, decisive strike.

To a traditional swordsman, Qiubai’s attacks might seem almost like parlor tricks, but Ryoma recognized the power within them and the effort it took to attain such skill.

Ryoma was not asking for Qiubai’s name—they both knew that already. He was asking for the name of the sword style.

“Eight…” The words “Eight-Blade Style” nearly slipped out, but some dark, lingering resentment stopped him, and he changed course. “…Shigure.”

“Eightfold Shigure?”

“No, just Shigure. No ‘Eight.’”

Realizing he had spoken out of turn, Qiubai quickly corrected himself. From that moment on, he would refer to the Eight-Blade Style as the Seven Swords of Shigure… though even calling it Eightfold Shigure would not be wrong.

Of course, the name meant little to anyone but himself.

Regardless of how many swords there were, as their exchange continued, the match drew to a close.

From the standpoint of evaluating Qiubai’s skill, Ryoma had seen enough. There was no point in going further.

In truth, it could not have gone on much longer. Though Qiubai’s attacks were as woven as a net, for a swordsman of Ryoma’s level, finding an opening was no challenge.

Ryoma gently brushed aside Qiubai’s attack with his blade, slipped through the gaps in the sword net, and placed the tip of his sword against Qiubai’s chest.

“It was quite impressive. To put it simply, your attacks…” Ryoma seemed to search for the right words.

“All technique, no true form,” Qiubai finished for him, well aware of his own shortcomings.

The Eight-Blade Style was merely a method of wielding swords, a foundation—there was nothing in it that could truly be called a technique.

Qiubai took a step back, both to distance himself from Ryoma’s sword and to dismiss the swords he had used.

“If you mean sword technique, I have only one move. However…”

Beyond the Seven Swords of Shigure, he had other sword arts, but so far, only one was truly complete. He would need to switch swords as well.

Another blade appeared in his hand, this time sheathed.

“Cutting Blade: Dull.”

Even in its name, one could sense the blacksmith’s mischief. It was a blade that could sever anything, yet it was called “Dull.”

Qiubai hung the sword at his waist, his left hand on the scabbard, his right poised on the hilt. From his stance, it was clear his next attack would be a simple drawing strike.

But with draw techniques, “simply” could be deceiving—it might only be a draw, or it might be something more.

Qiubai drew the blade forward, and finally, Ryoma took a step back.

“First Form: Rikū.”

The earlier first form may have failed, but Qiubai had another first form yet to offer.