Chapter 91: A Twisted Relationship
Although their faces were blurred, their builds and facial structures were
nearly identical.
They looked like brothers—two halves of the same bloodline. From Natsuya's
perspective, they differed only in their hairstyles and the colors of their
clothing.
The swordsmanship of the "Purple" youth was incredibly sharp, bordering on
flawless. Even with Natsuya's hyper-critical gamer eye, he couldn't find a
single frame out of place. He moved like a precision surgical instrument: cold,
efficient, and lethal.
The "Red" youth, however—the same man who had helped the first generation of
Hashira derive their styles—was a different story entirely.
Compared to Purple, his swordplay felt... natural.
Natsuya thought for a moment and found the perfect word: [Sunlight].
It was like the warm amber glow of a winter afternoon—inclusive, effortless, and
yet it permeated every inch of the cruel moonlight cast by the Purple swordsman.
Natsuya couldn't definitively say whose technique was higher, but his "Gamer
Instinct" whispered that Red was in a league of his own.
The session had started as a technical discussion on Breathing, but at some
point, Purple's aura had shifted. He locked onto Red with a predatory intensity.
What was supposed to be a sparring match gradually became more aggressive, more
desperate.
Even as a spectator, Natsuya could "hear" the silent question in the wind
created by Purple's blade:
"How about this move? Can this finally surpass you?"
Red, on the other hand, seemed completely oblivious to his brother's growing
frustration. He was fully immersed in the rhythm of the "dance." Faced with
increasingly lethal strikes, he simply parried and adjusted, guiding his
brother's force to flow more smoothly. He was sharing the pure joy of the
blade, his aura remaining as clear and vast as the horizon where the sea meets
the sky.
Red's attitude toward Purple was significantly more patient and gentle than it
had been with the previous five swordsmen.
Purple didn't appreciate the sentiment. He resisted the instructions, refusing
to let his lungs follow Red's rhythm, choosing instead to brute-force his way
through with raw technique, trying to suppress his brother.
Yet, with every casual movement, Red dismantled him.
They've gotta be brothers, Natsuya thought. It's that classic 'I want my brother
to succeed, but I hate that he's better than me' vibe. No, wait—it's even more
twisted than that.
As the duel progressed, the gap became a canyon. Every strike from Purple was a
frantic climb toward a summit; Red was the summit itself, opening his arms and
inviting his brother to see the view.
I bet that gap is exactly what's making Purple so tilted, Natsuya mused.
But eventually, Purple achieved a breakthrough. Despite his refusal to master
Red's specific rhythm, he derived something of his own from their conflict.
His sword-intent underwent a metamorphosis fueled by extreme pressure and
resentment. A cold, noble, and obsessively beautiful state of mind was born. It
bloomed in the night like frozen moonlight.
[Moon Breathing]
The name flashed through Natsuya's mind. It was terrifyingly strong. Even
without seeing the raw data, he could tell this style was on par with the five
basic origins.
Perhaps because he lost control in the moment of the style's birth, or perhaps
because he was finally feeling himself, Purple's next strike was lethally real.
"First Form: Dark Moon, Evening Palace!"
It went far beyond a friendly spar. He was swinging a live Nichirin Sword with
intent to kill.
However, in the next micro-second, the freezing moonlight was enveloped and
melted by a gentle wave of solar warmth. Red had neutralized the strike with
effortless grace.
Instead of being angry, Red looked genuinely happy that his brother had found
his own path.
The Purple youth stood in silence for a long time. Finally, his face darkened.
He let out a cold snort and walked away without a word.
The vision receded like a tide.
Natsuya snapped back to reality, finding himself still sitting in the Rengoku
dojo. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
Those final strikes... they were both monsters.
Even if Purple was "weaker" than Red, he was still a god. Natsuya realized that
even a 450+ Power Level like Shinjuro would be nothing more than a training
dummy to those two.
I've got a long way to go, Natsuya admitted.
While the cutscene couldn't be replayed, a new item notification popped up.
[Special CG Completed] [Item Obtained: Essentials of Primal Breathing] [Note:
This item cannot be used directly. It can be sacrificed as a 'Crafting Material'
when developing a Custom Breathing Style to drastically increase the Quality and
Completion rate of the result.]
The hidden rewards just keep coming, Natsuya grinned. Sweet.
Tokyo. Deep Night.
The city was silent, but in a nameless back alley, a gaunt girl was sprinting
for her life.
Nobuko had only gone out to "borrow" some newly arrived Western medicines from a
nearby warehouse for a sick friend. In the hours before dawn, the guards were
usually at their laziest. As long as she didn't take too much, no one would
notice a few missing bottles.
That was the plan. She hadn't expected to run into a "monster."
While navigating the shortcuts, she had spotted a man hunched over a body, the
sound of wet chewing filling the alley. Even in the dark, the thick scent of
copper and the sound of teeth snapping through bone had triggered her
street-honed survival instincts.
She had turned and bolted instantly.
The demon had noticed her. It casually tossed a hard object that struck her in
the center of her back. Nobuko stumbled but didn't stop. It hurt like hell, but
her legs were still working.
As she burst out of the alley, she slammed into several late-night pedestrians.
"Watch where you're going, brat!"
"I'm sorry! JUST RUN!"
The man who had been knocked down began to curse, reaching out for his friend's
hand to pull himself up. No one liked being tackled by a dirty street urchin in
the middle of the night, especially not in front of a friend. He expected a
laugh or a joke at his expense.
Instead, he noticed his friend's hand was acting strange. It was twitching
violently, as if having a seizure.
"Kenta? You drink too much? Can't even hold your hand steady—"
He looked up.
His friend was still standing there, his arm extended as if to help. But Kenta's
head was encased in a massive, deformed, gray-blue palm that had reached out
from the shadows of the alley. The rough, thick fingers covered his entire face.
Kenta's skull was already audibly crunching, his features caving in. His limbs
gave one final, uncoordinated twitch.
"AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!"
When a mixture of brain matter and scalp sprayed into his open mouth, the man
finally found his voice. He let out a blood-curdling scream and began to
scramble away on all fours.
"Dinner was interrupted..." the demon hissed, its voice a low, grating rumble.
Its left arm transformed into a black-red fleshy whip, which burrowed into the
corpse's mouth to dissolve and drink the remains. Then, it tossed the shriveled
husk aside like a piece of trash.
"More boring meat. No flavor."
It looked toward the man who was fleeing and vanished from the spot.
The man was running with everything he had, his heart nearly bursting with
terror. He rounded a corner, only to slam face-first into a "wall."
Oof! Since when was there a wall here?!
He clutched his bleeding nose and looked up.
He saw a muscular, vein-bulged chest and a pair of lips still smeared with fresh
blood. A few bits of his friend's flesh were still stuck between the demon's
teeth.
The man's legs turned to jelly, and he collapsed. This monster... he was behind
me! How did he... get ahead of me?!
"Let's see how you taste," the demon whispered, reaching out.
A moment later, the demon wiped its mouth. Its eyes drifted toward the horizon.
That woman... she's managed to get that far already?
In the next second, its silhouette vanished again, leaving the street as silent
as if it had never been there.
☆☆☆
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