The Almighty Martial Arts System - Chapter 246

Miyamoto Kazuma rose slowly and followed the young woman into the courtyard, stopping beside the scar-faced man who had been practicing swordsmanship.

The frenzied swordsman finally paused, the icy intensity in his eyes softening slightly as he bowed respectfully. “Master.”

Kazuma waved a hand dismissively. “Defeat is nothing to fear. True warriors do not dread failure—they use it as a stepping stone to grow stronger. Your loss is not the end, but you must not let it consume you with hatred or shake your conviction. A swordsman who seeks strength cannot rely on vengeance as his driving force. That is putting the cart before the horse.”

“I understand. Thank you for your guidance, Master,” Endo Miyamoto replied, straightening up.

“Understanding is not enough. You must master your emotions,” Kazuma said. “Every warrior faces defeat. Even I suffered a crushing loss once—one that forced me into seclusion for over a decade. I do not want you to see failure as a burden, but as motivation.”

At these words, not only Endo but also the young woman, Yamamoto Wakamizu, stiffened, their eyes alight with curiosity.

As Kazuma’s disciples, they knew well of his past glories—how he had once challenged seventeen renowned swordsmen across Japan and emerged undefeated.

Until, finally, he faced the legendary iaijutsu master, Yagyū Munenori.

That duel remained one of Japanese swordsmanship’s greatest mysteries. No one besides Kazuma and Yagyū themselves knew what had truly transpired—how Yagyū had won. Even after all these years, the details were never revealed, not even to Kazuma’s most trusted disciple, Endo.

It was a secret that still fueled endless speculation. Yet it was also a taboo subject—no one dared ask Kazuma or Yagyū directly.

Today, however, was the first time Kazuma had ever mentioned it to his students.

And what he revealed was staggering.

Their master, who had once triumphed over seventeen opponents, had not merely lost to Yagyū—he had been utterly crushed.

No wonder he had secluded himself for over a decade afterward. The blow must have been devastating.

Just as Endo, on what should have been a routine trip to China, had never imagined being defeated by a seemingly frail woman—let alone left with a disfiguring scar.

The humiliation burned.

Heart heavy, Endo finally mustered the courage to ask, “Master… fourteen years ago, how did Yagyū Munenori defeat you?”

Kazuma’s expression remained neutral—neither angry nor amused. Only a trace of lingering bewilderment.

“How he defeated me? Perhaps I will only understand when we duel again.”

Even now, after years of meditation and training, he still could not fully grasp what had happened that day.

His gaze grew distant, as if reliving the moment.

Back then, fresh from seventeen consecutive victories, Kazuma had faced Yagyū in a sealed dojo, twin blades in hand.

Yet Yagyū had arrived empty-handed.

Kazuma had taken it as arrogance, an insult. He had been furious, determined to teach the legendary swordsman a lesson.

But the result had left him stunned.

The moment he moved to draw his blades, Yagyū had seized control—rendering him immobile.

Unarmed, Yagyū had disarmed him. A single counterattack, and it was over.

That day, Kazuma had finally understood the true essence of iaijutsu—the principle of mutō-dori (taking the sword without a sword).

A master swordsman, yet he had been unable to even draw his weapon.

Yagyū’s technique was terrifying—perfected to the point of guaranteeing a one-strike kill. Few could survive such precision and speed.

Though Kazuma’s skills had since deepened beyond measure, he knew that even now, facing Yagyū again, victory was far from certain.

At the very least, he could now draw his blade. But if Yagyū were to wield his own sword—eschewing the “no-kill” philosophy of mutō-dori—could Kazuma withstand the full might of iaijutsu?

That was why, even today, he still did not fully understand his defeat.

Only by forcing Yagyū to fight seriously—to draw his own blade—could he hope to grasp the truth.

Kazuma spoke calmly, but his students’ eyes widened in shock.

Their master… still did not know how he had lost?

“Does that mean… you still cannot defeat Yagyū Munenori?” Endo blurted out.

He had seen firsthand the terrifying heights of Kazuma’s swordsmanship. He had assumed that after fourteen years, his master had long surpassed Yagyū.

Yet Kazuma only shook his head, gazing at the moon.

“Yagyū Munenori is my lifelong rival. If I were confident in victory, I would have challenged him again long ago. I would not have spent these years in seclusion.”

Endo and Wakamizu gasped. “That’s impossible!”

“There is no such thing as ‘impossible,'” Kazuma said coolly. “But regardless, once I return from China, I will face him again.”

“Why now?” Endo asked, bewildered. If Kazuma still lacked confidence, why not wait until he was stronger?

“Because we made a vow. Fifteen years after our duel, we would fight again—so long as we both still lived.” A faint smile touched Kazuma’s lips. “By the time I return from China, the time will be ripe. So I hope this woman who defeated you does not disappoint. Let her be another whetstone for my blade.”

Indeed, Kazuma’s journey to China was not merely about avenging his disciple’s loss.

His true purpose was to sharpen his sword.

Just as Liu Yunduo sought out duels to hone her skills, Kazuma sought battles that would push him to his limits—forcing breakthroughs under life-and-death pressure.

For a swordsman, there was no better way to grow.

Fourteen years ago, Kazuma had crisscrossed Japan, challenging seventeen masters to temper his blade.

But now, having studied every major school of Japanese swordsmanship, only one opponent remained beyond his reach—Yagyū and his iaijutsu.

Japan could teach him no more.

China, however—with its millennia of martial history—was a different matter.

Though much of its swordsmanship had faded, Kazuma knew true masters still lurked in obscurity.

Chinese swordplay differed fundamentally from Japanese kenjutsu. By testing himself against it, Kazuma hoped to find the final piece he needed before facing Yagyū again.

After a long silence, Kazuma turned back to Endo.

“Wakamizu tells me your scar could be fully healed. Why refuse?”

Endo bowed slightly, his voice cold. “As you said, Master—a warrior uses defeat as a stepping stone. This scar will remind me to never grow complacent.”

“Good.” Kazuma nodded in approval.

For a swordsman, scars were meaningless.

What mattered was remembering how they were earned—and ensuring no more would follow.

As the future heir of the Niten Ichi-ryū, Endo’s resolve pleased him greatly.