A swordsman's true power lies in their mastery of the blade—and the body, honed through relentless training.
Miyamoto stood firm, facing Logan's overwhelming aura head-on. His expression was still and unwavering.
"Ever since I first held a sword," he said quietly, "I knew that to win, I must remain absolutely calm in any fight."
Click.
He gently pushed the scabbards with his thumb. The long and short blades at his waist began to emerge, their clear, metallic ring echoing like a single drop of water falling into a still well.
A faint ripple passed through Miyamoto's steely gray eyes—and then, everything changed.
Landslide. Tsunami.
With just the act of drawing his sword, it felt as though the world split open. Flames roared. Thunder exploded. A hurricane rose from the sea.
Miyamoto's battle spirit surged violently, yet he stared at Logan in silence, eyes burning with resolve.
"I've heard many call you 'Invincible.'" He stepped forward, voice low and calm. "That's what they say about me too."
He twisted his wrist, letting the blade cut through wind—and the distance between them.
"Niten Ichiryu: Super Speed!"
Boom!
The ground beneath him cracked, the air itself seemed to explode, and nearby streetlights flickered in and out like dying stars.
Then, like a bullet, Miyamoto shot toward Logan.
His long blade raised high, every muscle in his body fed power into the strike—shoulders, arms, wrists—until it poured into the sword like a torrent, crashing down with the force of a mountain.
"Niten Ichiryu: Slashing Iron!"
It was a single, clean swing. A basic motion with a katana. And yet, in that moment, it carried the weight of death.
It didn't feel slow, but the human mind, sensing its own end, perceived time differently. For those watching, that sword wasn't just a weapon—it was a verdict.
Death itself.
But—
"Ora!"
Star Platinum's punch met the descending blade with a thunderous crash.
The force of the punch shattered the sword's pressure. The two froze mid-move, eyes locked. The moment stretched as thoughts traveled silently across blade and fist.
Logan sensed Miyamoto's fighting spirit—pure, untainted. Every swing was not to kill, but to push limits, to rise beyond himself.
And Miyamoto felt Logan's vast, unshaken mind—open like the sky.
The clash ended in a blink.
Miyamoto leapt back, absorbing the punch's recoil mid-air. Before he could land, Logan raised his hand and pointed.
"Meteor Finger!"
Star Platinum's index and middle fingers shot toward Miyamoto like spears—aimed directly at his chest and gut.
Clang!
A short sword appeared in Miyamoto's left hand, just in time to deflect the strike.
He twisted mid-air, redirecting the impact, and like a swimming dragon, spiraled back toward Logan. His short blade moved again, this time targeting Star Platinum's throat at a speed nearly invisible to the eye.
"Niten Ichiryu: Soul-Breaking!"
But no matter how fast the sword was, it couldn't beat Star Platinum's close-range dynamic vision.
The Stand raised one hand to block the slash and countered with the other.
Chi—
A faint cut appeared on Logan's cheek.
It didn't pierce deep, but it was enough to draw blood. A soul-cutting technique, perhaps?
Logan ran a finger across the wound—it vanished instantly.
Star Platinum glanced at him, asking silently:
"Why not use Time Stop?"
Logan shook his head.
Miyamoto had claimed he would strike three times. One sword remained.
He wanted to witness the samurai's full resolve.
Star Platinum understood and nodded, fists flaring as he charged again.
Anyone else would have been reduced to pulp by now, but Miyamoto blocked every strike with his dual blades.
"Niten Ichiryu: Flowing Thought."
This was Miyamoto's pinnacle technique—deflect the enemy's force like water, absorb and store it, then strike fatally when the moment came.
In the past, no matter how fierce the opponent, this move rendered their attacks ineffective.
But not today.
Bang!
BANG!
BANG!!!
Blood burst from Miyamoto's body. Bones cracked.
Star Platinum's fists were too strong, too fast, too heavy. He couldn't deflect them all.
Within a single second, Miyamoto's body was on the brink of collapse.
Yet his eyes burned brighter.
He hadn't felt this alive in years. The more pain he took, the more power he drew. He transformed it.
The next strike—his final strike—would be the strongest in his life.
He ignored his wounds, stomped hard into the ground, and let blood spray like mist. Bones shattered further. His soul ignited, pouring into both blades.
"Logan! This is who I am! This is the sword of a samurai!"
Flames danced along the steel—his spirit made manifest.
The air froze. Everyone held their breath.
Two brilliant arcs of light, one forward, one reversed, carved through the air—
Miyamoto's ultimate move, slashing toward Logan.
"Star Platinum: The World!"
Fwhoosh—
A cold breeze swept through the night.
Miyamoto stood frozen, arms crossed mid-slash.
But his blades were… gone?
Confused, he looked around wildly. Had he dropped them? Had they been knocked away?
The ultimate disgrace for a swordsman.
Then he caught Saito Ayate's gaze and followed it.
His swords… were back in their scabbards.
As if they'd never been drawn.
Miyamoto's breath caught. His body remained locked in his slashing posture, but now, it looked like he was reaching out—begging.
What… what kind of power is this?
Had the entire fight been his imagination?
Had he never even drawn his sword?
His mind reeled—and stopped abruptly when something soft touched his hand.
A white towel.
"Wipe it off," Logan said.
Wipe… what?
Miyamoto looked down.
A thin white chalk mark crossed his throat and heart.
His eyes fell on the chalk in Logan's hand.
If that had been a blade, or a kunai, or even Logan's fist… he would be dead.
The fight was over.
"I told you you'd lose after three swings," Logan said calmly. "But forget the third. Dying here like this would be meaningless for someone like you."
Miyamoto placed a trembling hand on his sword hilt. After a long pause, he let it go.
"I lost," he whispered. "Logan, you truly are invincible."
He gave a shallow bow, blood dripping from fresh wounds. Then he slowly straightened and turned to leave, eyes dulled.
"Where are you going?" Logan asked.
"To grow stronger," Miyamoto replied. "Unless… you've changed your mind and decided to kill me?"
"No," Logan said. "If you have nowhere to go, stay at my place for a while."
He pointed at Sasuke and Xiao Tao behind him.
"I want you to be their sword instructor. And when you're ready… we can spar again."
Miyamoto hesitated, then nodded slowly.
Sasuke stepped forward and helped him sit down.
"Teacher, eat," Xiao Tao said, handing him an orange.
"…Thanks."
Miyamoto peeled it, popped a slice in his mouth, and swallowed it along with the taste of blood.
Strange flavor.
Strange people.
He glanced at Logan's back.
Logan dropped the chalk, wiped his hands on his clothes, and turned to Saito Ayate.
"One year's tax, right?"
Saito's face twitched.
She had known Logan was strong, but not absurdly so.
Still, she quickly composed herself and smiled.
"Of course. From today until this time next year, all taxes in the Land of Water will be suspended."
Logan nodded. "Good. Let's not repeat this again. I admit—when it comes to politics, even ten of me wouldn't match you."
Saito giggled behind her hand. "Mr. Logan, you jest—"
"I'm not joking."
Logan said evenly, "Luckily for me, I don't need to enter your arena of manipulation."
If all the daimyo were as weak as the former ruler of the Land of Water, Logan could crush them.
But if they were shrewd politicians?
He wouldn't stand a chance.
That wasn't his path.
"I'm the spark," Logan said. "The spear that breaks the dark. And after that…"
His voice cooled.
"The rolling tide of the future will crush everything in its way."
Politics and schemes? They would mean nothing in the face of a true, rising tide.
Saito's smile froze.
She didn't quite understand what Logan meant.
But a chill crept down her spine.
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