After dinner, the three of them returned to the hall.
By now, there were no disciples training, and the servants were dismissed by Shiraishi Junichi.
"Mr. Hirota, are you really not going to wear protective gear?" Shiraishi Junichi, already dressed in protective gear and kendo uniform, asked Masashi again.
"My reason is the same as this morning. It's not out of disrespect; I'm just not used to it. Let's start quickly."
Shiraishi didn't insist further. He saluted Masashi with his sword and stood with a focused, serious expression, while Masashi remained casual and relaxed.
Rumi, seated nearby, watched them with nervous excitement, her eyes wide open to avoid missing anything.
Shiraishi sensed something different about Masashi. Although his stance was filled with apparent openings, Shiraishi couldn't sense his presence.
It was a strange feeling—he could see Masashi standing there, yet it felt as if there was no trace of him, as if he were merely a projection.
Is he a ghost? Shiraishi wondered involuntarily.
Realizing he couldn't keep waiting, he shouted, "Ha!" and charged at Masashi.
In Masashi's eyes, Shiraishi's sword approached as if in slow motion; he could see every subtle change in his opponent—each shift in breathing, muscle tension, and the dilation of his pupils.
For Masashi, who possessed eternal life, martial arts practice served as a spiritual solace through the centuries. Rather than a necessity, it was more like a pastime.
With thousands of years of accumulated experience, even Masashi didn't know how strong he truly was.
There had never been an opponent who could push him to use his full strength. The concept of a "limit" was meaningless to him; he didn't aim for any specific level but simply surpassed himself over and over. If a lifetime wasn't enough, he'd continue into the next.
In this sense, any duel with him was inherently unfair—unless the opponent was someone like him.
At his level, martial arts training was more a mental breakthrough than a physical one. Shiraishi couldn't feel Masashi's presence because he had merged himself with his surroundings, enabling him to perceive everything with absolute clarity.
As Shiraishi's sword was half an arm's length away, Masashi moved.
Shiraishi saw a flash of white light and, in the next instant, he was thrown backward, his bamboo sword flying into the air.
For a moment, not only Shiraishi but also Rumi was utterly shocked. She finally understood how she'd been defeated the first time.
Too fast, she thought. She hadn't seen it at all. It was as if the bamboo sword had always been there, and Shiraishi had simply run into it.
It was terrifying; this swordsmanship transcended human comprehension. Rumi now fully understood her grandfather's words—this was indeed an unsurpassable level.
"Mr. Hirota, I concede. I'm utterly convinced of your skill," Shiraishi said respectfully as he stood up.
"Are we not continuing?"
"There's no need. I'm grateful that you allowed me to experience how profound kendo can be. I have no regrets in my life."
"Don't talk like an old man; you're only in your forties," Masashi chuckled, realizing he might have gone too hard.
"Mr. Hirota, with such incredible skill, I can't imagine what level Senior Lei Yin reached," Shiraishi said, still a bit shaken.
"What level could he have reached? That old man died ten years ago."
"What? Senior Lei Yin has passed away?"
"Didn't I tell you?"
Both Shiraishi and Rumi shook their heads.
"Huh, my bad. I forgot."
The two of them felt they might faint.
The next morning, after Shiraishi and Rumi tried to persuade him to stay, Masashi returned to Tokyo.