"Shhrrk—!"
Uzui Tengen's short blade sliced past Gyutaro's back, the tip shearing through strands of his tangled hair. Gyutaro twisted sharply, his sickle slashing back in a wide arc coated with black poison, forcing Tengen to leap away.
Their weapons collided midair, ringing with sharp, grating clangs. Sparks scattered across the floorboards, catching briefly on the sawdust before dying out in the thick, dusty air.
"Perfect timing!"
Gyutaro grinned, baring his jagged teeth as the short knife in his left hand lunged toward Tengen's chest. "Another one rushing to die? Good—saves me the trouble of hunting you down later!"
"Don't get cocky, you damn monster!"
Tengen kicked off the floor, his body shooting forward like an arrow from a bow. He twisted midair, dodging the stab, and brought his right-hand blade down toward Gyutaro's neck.
His movements were blindingly fast—every slash slipped perfectly into the gaps between Gyutaro's attacks. Silver arcs of light clashed against black shadows again and again; in the blink of an eye, they'd exchanged more than ten strikes, too quick for the naked eye to follow.
Seeing an opening, Giyu didn't hesitate. The golden aura around his Nichirin Sword flared brighter.
"Sun Breathing, Third Form: Raging Sun!"
His blade burst forth like the noonday sun, cutting straight toward Gyutaro's side.
Gyutaro had just dodged Tengen's knife when Giyu's sudden strike came in low from the flank. He barely had time to swing his sickle up to block.
With a deafening clang, golden firelight met black steel. The impact sent shockwaves through the floor. Gyutaro's wrist went numb from the blow, and he staggered back three full steps before his heel struck a cracked wooden pillar, steadying him.
"Tomioka!"
Tengen slipped back to his side, keeping his eyes locked on Gyutaro while lowering his voice. "I need one minute! Hold him off while I finish reading his rhythm—once I've got the pattern, I can take him out clean."
"Reading his rhythm"—Tengen's unique shinobi technique, his personal combat art. By observing the opponent's attack flow, muscle tension, breathing tempo, and movement rhythm, he could translate every motion into a mental "score," like musical notes on a sheet. Once complete, he could anticipate every strike—countering perfectly, effortlessly.
But it demanded absolute focus—one full minute of uninterrupted concentration.
Giyu gave a brief nod without speaking.
The next moment, he charged again. The golden aura faded from his sword, replaced by cool, rippling blue.
"Water Breathing, Third Form: Flowing Dance!"
The blade swept forward, smooth and unbroken, each strike weaving into the next like gentle rain. It seemed calm—defensive—but every movement subtly cut off Gyutaro's approach.
Gyutaro tried to swing, but every attack met a wall of flowing steel. Each time he raised his sickle, Giyu's blade was already there—anticipating, deflecting, denying him even half a step.
"You just dodge like a coward?! Pathetic!"
Gyutaro snarled in rage. Dark mist gathered around his left arm, boiling with power.
"Blood Demon Art: Rampant Arc Rampage!"
Countless drops of black blood sprayed from his blade, shooting through the air like a storm of poisonous needles. Wherever they landed, the wood hissed and corroded, leaving a field of tiny smoking holes.
Giyu's eyes hardened. His feet stopped.
He raised his sword in front of him, drawing a perfect, steady arc.
"Water Breathing, Eleventh Form: Dead Calm."
A translucent blue current formed instantly, still as a frozen pond. The rain of black blood struck it—but instead of breaking through, every droplet was absorbed, swallowed by the calm surface until nothing reached him.
As the water veil faded, Giyu surged forward, the air shattering beneath his step.
His blade cut diagonally with roaring precision.
"Wind Breathing, Second Form: Claws-Purifying Wind!"
A faint green flash followed the motion, sharp winds coiling around the blade. The slash was so fast it left only a blur in the air.
Gyutaro hadn't expected the sudden switch. His right hand couldn't pull back in time, so he jerked his left arm up, crossing his short knife to block.
Clang!
The sickle was jolted from Gyutaro's grip by the wind pressure, spinning through the air before embedding itself deep in the wall. Black poison dripped slowly from the blade, hissing as it hit the floorboards.
"It's not over yet!"
Gyutaro roared, lunging forward. His empty left hand grabbed for Giyu's collar while his right knee shot upward in a vicious strike toward Giyu's stomach.
His movements were wild and erratic but terrifyingly fast, every blow carrying a desperate, suicidal fury.
Giyu lightly tapped the ground, sliding back half a meter, dodging the knee strike. His Nichirin Sword shifted once more, glowing gold.
"Sun Breathing, Fourth Form: Fake Rainbow!"
The golden flash split into three afterimages, each blade arc slashing toward Gyutaro's neck, chest, and knees.
Gyutaro's pupils constricted. Forced to abandon his attack, he stumbled back, narrowly evading all three strikes. The afterimages cut into the floorboards, carving out three deep grooves—proof of their power.
Off to the side, Uzui Tengen had already closed his eyes. His right hand flicked rapidly through invisible signs, lips moving in silence as if counting beats.
In his mind, every swing, step, and breath Gyutaro took transformed into precise rhythmic lines—each one a note in an invisible composition. Every clash and motion became part of a larger pattern, a musical score of battle. His eyes opened briefly to glance at the scene, refining the details; with each pass, his expression sharpened.
The rhythm—the "score"—was nearly complete. Only a few final measures remained.
"What the hell are you doing?!"
Gyutaro snarled, sensing something off. But Giyu's relentless assault pinned him down; he couldn't break away.
Frustration exploded into rage. His veins bulged, muscles tensing as black mist erupted from his pores, flooding the air around him. His presence swelled like a storm.
"Blood Demon Art: Layered Wrath!"
His strength and speed doubled instantly. His swings blurred, creating streaks of black afterimages. Poison gathered along his blades in spiked ridges, every strike howling through the air like tearing metal.
"Water Breathing, Eleventh Form: Dead Calm!"
"Wind Breathing, Third Form: Clear Storm Wind Tree!"
"Sun Breathing, Second Form: Clear Blue Sky!"
Giyu alternated his breathing styles seamlessly—defense and offense weaving together. Dead Calm nullified the venomous spikes, Clear Storm Wind Tree disrupted Gyutaro's rhythm, and Clear Blue Sky forced him back with burning golden heat.
Sweat rolled down Giyu's temples. His breathing grew heavy, and his arm began to tremble from the strain of constant blocks. But his eyes stayed steady and cold.
He couldn't retreat. He couldn't take a hit. He only needed to last a few more seconds—just until Tengen's score was complete.
"Shhhkk—!"
One of Gyutaro's blades grazed Giyu's left shoulder, slicing open his haori. Poison hissed through the torn fabric, eating small holes, but it hadn't touched his skin.
Without pausing, Giyu twisted midair, bringing his sword down in a burning arc.
"Flame Breathing, First Form: Unknowing Fire!"
The orange-red blaze roared, forcing Gyutaro to draw back his leg in defense.
At that exact moment, Uzui Tengen's eyes snapped open, glinting with razor focus.
"Tomioka! Move!"
"My score is complete!"
Giyu didn't hesitate. His body flowed backward like water, slipping out of the combat zone entirely.
Tengen's feet slammed into the floor. His body launched forward like a silver flash, closing the distance between them in an instant.
His movement had changed completely—each step landed precisely in the gaps between Gyutaro's attacks. His twin blades traced lines that perfectly mirrored the trajectory of Gyutaro's swings, as if he'd fought this same battle a thousand times before.
"How… how do you know where I'll strike?!"
Gyutaro's voice trembled with disbelief. Each time he raised his sickle, Tengen's blades were already there, blocking and deflecting with uncanny precision. Every attack was predicted, every motion countered.
He was being outplayed, his movements tangled like a puppet on invisible strings.
Tengen's lips curved into a fierce, confident grin. The silver light from his blades flared like lightning.
"Now," he said, his tone bright and sharp, "it's my turn."