The Almighty Martial Arts System - Chapter 273

The Secret Third Blade

For fourteen years in seclusion, aside from honing his swordsmanship and deepening his mastery of the blade, Kazuma Miyamoto had also devised many unexpected life-saving techniques—such as iaijutsu (the quick-draw strike), for instance.

But the technique he was now executing was something no one in the real world had ever wielded before—a swordsmanship style that existed only in imagination and theory: the Three-Sword Style.

This was the deadliest technique he had developed over more than a decade of research.

Before coming to China, he had never imagined he would be forced to use it here. He had believed that no opponent in this “sword-sharpening” journey would be worthy of drawing out his third blade. At most, his Two-Sword Style’s “Cycle Slash” would be enough to sweep aside all challengers.

He had never revealed the Three-Sword Style to anyone—not even his disciples, Fujino Miyamoto or Wakaba Yamamoto, knew of its existence. Only he himself was aware of it.

This was a technique he had reserved for his ultimate battle against his greatest rival, Munemori Yagyū. In his eyes, only Munemori deserved to witness this third blade.

A killing move is only truly deadly when no one knows of it—when it cannot be countered.

Once a technique becomes widely known, maintaining its invincibility becomes ten times harder. Thus, unless absolutely necessary, Miyamoto had no intention of exposing his final trump card.

But now… it was necessary.

If he didn’t unleash this final technique today, he would lose—perhaps even die. He could sense the killing intent emanating from Jiang Fei. From the very beginning, the young man had openly admitted: He was here to kill.

“To force out my ultimate technique… you’ll die a worthy death,” Miyamoto mused inwardly. He was genuinely shocked by Jiang Fei’s extraordinary swordsmanship—so much so that he felt this duel alone could mark the end of his “sword-sharpening” journey. The insights he gained today were enough. He could return to Japan, enter seclusion once more, and prepare for his impending battle against Munemori Yagyū.

In his eyes, Jiang Fei was undeniably a once-in-a-generation sword prodigy, worthy of the title “Sword God.” He had once thought Liu Yunduo’s techniques were bizarre enough, but now he realized Jiang Fei surpassed her by far—no wonder he was the master behind her skills.

But what a pity…

This young genius was Chinese, not Japanese.

Had Jiang Fei been part of Japan’s swordsmanship world, even if they weren’t allies, Miyamoto would have felt a sense of camaraderie toward him—just as he did with Munemori Yagyū. After a decisive duel, they might even have become friends.

Rivals yet comrades.

But Jiang Fei was Chinese.

And so, today, Miyamoto would not only defeat him—he would kill him.

This boy cannot be allowed to live.

A monster like this, given time to grow, would reach unimaginable heights.

Miyamoto had once been confident in his disciple Fujino’s potential, believing he would one day surpass Liu Yunduo. But after witnessing Jiang Fei, that confidence was shattered.

No one in Japan’s younger generation could compare.

This prodigy’s very existence seemed designed to crush others’ spirits.

“Die!”

With a muffled roar, Miyamoto channeled his full power into his twin blades, locking down Jiang Fei’s sword. His killing intent had peaked—today, Jiang Fei would fall.

His third blade, clenched between his teeth, slashed forward without mercy.

Jiang Fei’s heart pounded as he grasped the lethality of this technique.

This old monster already mastered the Two-Sword Style… and now he’s pulled off the legendary Three-Sword Style? In all of Japan’s swordsmanship history, no one had ever achieved this. It was a record-breaking feat, pushing the limits of complexity and abstraction in swordplay.

But… what if his teeth weaken with age? What if he wakes up with a stiff neck? What if he develops arthritis?

Amidst these absurd thoughts, Jiang Fei suddenly realized how to counter it.

True, his sword was pinned down by Miyamoto’s twin blades—but his other hand was free.

The third blade, unlike the two full-length katana, was only about 40 centimeters long. Miyamoto wasn’t some fictional pirate—he couldn’t wield a full-sized sword in his mouth. A shorter blade was more practical, minimizing the risk of self-injury.

But at 40 centimeters, this was close-quarters combat.

If the blade could reach Jiang Fei’s neck, Jiang Fei’s fist could reach Miyamoto’s head.

Of course, taking a punch was far better than taking a slash to the throat.

Another option was to catch the blade bare-handed—but that required insane resolve.

Few had the will to grab a razor-sharp edge without flinching.

Miyamoto’s vision spun as he twisted his head, the world whirling around him.

But his focus never left Jiang Fei.

Amidst the chaos, you’re all I see.

He watched eagerly for Jiang Fei’s reaction.

Then—Jiang Fei’s shoulder moved.

His arm shot up, too fast for anything elaborate.

A punch? A straight, unbending fist?

Miyamoto’s heart leapt.

He’s too afraid to grab the blade. He’s trying to force me back with a strike.

If so, Miyamoto would take a punch at worst—maybe a concussion. But Jiang Fei? Decapitated.

This genius swordsman was about to meet his end.

Wait—

Not a fist.

A claw.

Jiang Fei’s fingers splayed open mid-strike.

Miyamoto sneered inwardly. A claw? More unpredictable, but just as useless.

He shut his eyes to protect them from a potential gouge.

Even if Jiang Fei scarred his face, it meant nothing to a warrior.

With his eyes closed, Miyamoto’s mind calmed.

Jiang Fei was already dead. He could almost feel the blade slicing through flesh, the hot spray of blood—

The spectators atop the pavilion were frozen in shock.

No one had imagined the Three-Sword Style could truly exist, let alone be executed with such lethal precision.

Jiang Fei, who had barely overcome the Two-Sword Style’s “Cycle Slash,” was now on the brink of death—all in less than five seconds.

Even Ye Yuanyuan, who had just holstered her gun, couldn’t react in time.

“Die!”

Miyamoto couldn’t speak with the hilt in his teeth, but the word echoed in his mind.

Killing such a prodigy was a waste—but necessary.

The more monstrous Jiang Fei was, the more he had to die.

Whoosh!

But the expected claw never struck his face.

Instead, it latched onto his arm.

What is he doing? Miyamoto was baffled. Gripping his arm wouldn’t cause injury. Some last trick?

It didn’t matter. There was no time left.

The third blade was three centimeters from Jiang Fei’s throat—Miyamoto could almost feel the pulse beneath the cold steel.

One more motion, and it would all be over.

“Huh?!”

Miyamoto’s eyes flew open.

His entire body locked up.

A bizarre, suction-like force erupted from Jiang Fei’s palm, draining his inner energy like a vortex.

His third blade froze in place—three centimeters from victory—and would never move again.