After resting at the inn for the night, Gekkō Hoshiyomi woke up early the next morning, full of energy, and headed straight for the Kenjutsu Tournament grounds.
He had braced himself for another massive queue like the one at the city gate—but to his surprise, the arena had already prepared for the crowd. There were ten small dueling platforms spread out across the grounds.
With the participants spread out this way, things didn't feel crowded at all. Curious, Hoshiyomi grabbed a nearby guy and asked what was going on.
Turned out, this was the tournament's signature prelim round—the Challenge Stage format.
The rules were simple: at exactly 9 a.m., the platforms opened. Anyone could jump up and become the current defending champion. If you either:
Defeated ten consecutive challengers, or
Successfully held the platform for thirty minutes
—then you would advance to the next stage.
But if you were defeated midway, you'd immediately be escorted out by the tournament's samurai and lose your eligibility to continue.
Brutal? Yes. But it was an efficient way to separate the elite from the fodder.
A real swordsman's skill could be seen in just one or two matches. With advancement slots so valuable, no one wanted to take unnecessary risks.
As for those with weaker strength? Their only hope was to claw their way forward with endurance and grit.
At exactly 9 a.m., the iron chains around each dueling stage were pulled back, and ten girls with varying styles and looks stepped onto the platforms to serve as referees.
The girls, all strikingly pretty, smiled sweetly at the crowd of young men surrounding the stages.
"Who wants to be the first to take the stage?"
Their soft, flirtatious voices instantly stirred up the fighting spirit of dozens of male contestants. In an instant, arms shot up across the crowd as everyone scrambled to be the first one up.
Hoshiyomi wasn't hyped about the girls like the others. He just wanted to escape the stinky, overcrowded mob of dudes who were pressing in from all sides.
He deeply regretted not bringing Lobo along. With Lobo nearby, a two-meter radius around him was always clear of people.
But today, worried that Lobo wouldn't have anywhere to go once the matches began, he had left him behind at the inn. Big mistake.
Now he was caught in a tidal wave of overly enthusiastic meatheads—completely surrounded.
Left, right, front, and back—it was all muscle-bound dudes.
So many guys. So. Many. Guys.
This… this must be what it feels like to be crushed by masculinity incarnate…
And then—BOOM.
Yo, the guy on my left… do you not know you have armpit stank?!
If he stayed in this pit of funk much longer, he'd pass out before even getting a match.
Desperate, Hoshiyomi began shoving his way forward, trying to get picked for the first round.
Luckily, the referee girl for his stage had sharp eyes. Despite his modest height, she spotted him in the crowd—perhaps it was his stunning good looks or the cool, navy-blue scabbard strapped to his back.
Her eyes lit up. She pointed and called out:
"Hey! You—black hair, white robe, blue scabbard. Yes, you.
Would you like to be the first to take the platform?"
At that moment, Hoshiyomi genuinely wanted to run up and hug her.
An angel. A literal goddess. A Bodhisattva sent to deliver me from this pit of suffering.
The crowd instinctively parted to make way. Under a flurry of envious, jealous, and downright murderous stares, Hoshiyomi leapt up onto the stage and finally escaped the armpit-pocalypse.
He shot the referee girl a grateful smile—so dazzling it made her momentarily dazed. For a few seconds, she forgot she was supposed to call the first challenger.
That only fueled the rage of the guys below. Angry mutters started swirling around, and one burly, muscular man finally couldn't take it anymore.
With a single motion, he vaulted up onto the platform and snarled at Hoshiyomi:
"Pretty boy, I'll be your opponent. Fight or what?"
Tch. Being good-looking is apparently a crime, Hoshiyomi grumbled mentally as he prepared to accept the challenge.
Off to the side, the referee girl was already regretting her choice. Seeing that this handsome young man might get beaten to a pulp because of her impulsive decision, guilt welled up in her chest.
She looked at him with genuine worry and said:
"Please be careful. If you really can't win, it's okay to surrender. I'll stop the match in time."
Hoshiyomi's expression twitched as he forced a polite nod.
Thanks for the concern… I guess.
Turning to face his opponent, he said respectfully:
"I look forward to learning from you."
The muscle-bound challenger scowled.
"Seriously? We're both born of the same species—how the hell did you end up looking like that?"
And watching the girl nearby mooning over Hoshiyomi made his blood boil.
He drew a massive broadsword from his back and growled:
"Let's see how pretty you are lying face-down on the ground!"
With that, he charged.
That kind of oversized broadsword wasn't common in the shinobi world. Paired with his bulky, gym-chiseled body, it was obvious he was a full Strength Build. Against normal opponents, his brute force would be overwhelming.
But against Hoshiyomi?
Not even close.
To the average spectator, the man's charge looked aggressive and unstoppable. But in Hoshiyomi's eyes, it was about as fast as a turtle wading through syrup.
He didn't even draw Mikazuki Munechika. He simply sidestepped while holding the sheathed sword in hand, easily dodging the overhead chop.
With a twist of his wrist, he smacked the hilt cleanly into the man's lower back.
The sudden impact made the musclehead gasp in pain. His horizontal slash faltered, the blade veering off-course.
Hoshiyomi circled behind him with a half-step, jammed the sheath into the back of the man's knee to make him drop, and then whipped the sheathed sword upward—cracking him cleanly across the back of the neck.
The man groaned but didn't go down.
Whoa, this guy's got a thick skull.
So Hoshiyomi casually brought the sheath down again—right on the top of his shiny bald head.
This time, the big guy slumped forward with a groan and collapsed unconscious on the stage.
Stunned silence.
The entire crowd stared in disbelief. Hoshiyomi hadn't even unsheathed his sword, and he'd completely dismantled someone that looked like a boss-level brawler.
Even after a group of staff carried the defeated challenger off the platform, the referee girl stood frozen, mouth half-open. She hadn't even called the match.
Hoshiyomi sighed, waving the sword sheath in front of her face until she blinked back to reality.
She blurted out:
"Winner… uh…"
"Himura Kenshin."
"Ah—Himura… Himura Kenshin!"
The crowd fell into an awkward silence—partly out of shock from his strength, and partly from the chemistry on stage.
Watching this pretty boy flirt with the dazed referee, many in the crowd began to seethe.
Eventually, someone couldn't take it anymore.
"That bald guy was all muscle and no skill. That pretty boy? He's just a fancy-looking stick. Watch this!"
A tall, skinny guy pushed through the crowd and stepped onto the stage.
The moment Hoshiyomi saw him, his expression shifted.
You—you're that guy from earlier… The one with the BO (body odor)…
Didn't I say not to let me catch you again?
And here you are—serving yourself up on a silver platter!
If I don't beat you into the ground today, then I'm not Himura Kenshin.
…Wait.
Actually, I was never Himura Kenshin to begin with…