"I hope to combine your kenjutsu with my clan's taijutsu, Orochimaru-sama," Nami declared confidently. "I believe there is value in that."
"Yes, destreza is fundamentally similar to your clan's hand-to-hand style," I couldn't help but yawn—I hadn't slept all night! "but your father is right. In a real fight, with real weapons, you'll run into problems. Even if you reinforce the blade with chakra, it will deteriorate quickly when parrying."
That's the truth. In this world, just like in medieval Japan, there's a serious issue with proper steel. The only major supplier of iron is, ironically, the Land of Iron. I'm no great physicist or metallurgist, of course, but I do have some basic knowledge. In short, all the steels I've seen used by local smiths are too expensive, too hard, and therefore too brittle. The cheaper material used to forge disposable gear like kunai and shuriken isn't much better than cast iron in terms of quality, largely due to the way it's heat-treated. And since weapon-grade metal is scarce in general, armor isn't widespread either. The only people I've seen wearing proper plate armor are samurai—who, surprise surprise, live in the Land of Iron.
In short, fencing here resembles Japan's approach—minimal parrying. Blades are too expensive, and damaging one by striking another piece of metal is all too easy. And if a sword is made from steels of differing hardness, it often isn't even drawn from its stand—just dusted off occasionally. Because it's worth more than gold.
Back in my previous life, when a full-blown craze for the "way of the sword" swept through self-respecting wealthy circles, I too decided to pursue something more refined. Supposedly, it keeps your body in shape and strengthens your spirit through wise teachings.
While everyone else rushed into the mushrooming dojos, my feet carried me instead to a school of destreza—Spanish fencing. They taught some Italian techniques there as well, since the two traditions developed side by side.
The key difference is that, unlike Japan, Europe never had any real issues with metal. Naturally, that led to striking differences in fencing styles. You can see it even in the design of the swords.
Nami's problem, if she wants to continue learning destreza, is that she has no way of obtaining a proper sword—straight, flexible, lightweight, with a wide guard. I, on the other hand, don't have that problem. My mom passed down an excellent blade from my unknown father. She says he definitely won't be needing it anymore—and gives me a rather ominous smile.
In any case, Kusanagi suits me perfectly. It had better, considering it can adapt to its wielder. Even in my previous world, it looked different everywhere—in the manga, in the anime, in Orochimaru's hands, in Sasuke's—different every time.
For my little apprentice, we'd need something similar—something more on the artifact side. Unfortunately, my hands aren't exactly made for that kind of work, so I can't really help her. I just got lucky and ended up with a proper weapon that suits my abilities.
I wonder where the swordsmen of the Mist got their blades…
"Looks like we're not the first ones here," I noted, surveying the training ground we'd finally reached during my distracted musings. "Guess someone else couldn't sleep either," I muttered gloomily.
Though, if I think back to myself at six, I wasn't any different from this little runt. I got up at four every day and trained like clockwork until I dropped. These days, with part of my time taken up by research, I've eased off—I only train three days a week now.
"Uchiha! Hey!" and there's Nawaki again. I'd almost forgotten about him—I'd been ignoring him so effectively.
Why does he have to shout like that? The training ground isn't that big—I can already see perfectly well that it really is an Uchiha in front of us. A girl, about the same age as Nami. Black hair, large dark eyes, a childishly round face. The only unusual thing about her is the surprisingly calm expression on her face at the sight of a Senju—almost friendly, even. For an Uchiha, that's practically unheard of.
"Good morning, Orochimaru-san, Nawaki-san, Nami," what a well-mannered child! You can tell right away—proper clan upbringing.
"Hello, Mikoto. Orochimaru-sama, allow me to introduce—Mikoto Uchiha, my friend and companion on the thorny path of mastering kenjutsu."
Now that's something—these girls just keep outdoing each other…
"Good morning, Mikoto-chan," I smirked. "Training this early? And not on the clan grounds? What, do your parents praise your older sibling more, don't pay you much attention, don't spend enough time on your training, so you're out here pushing yourself, practicing on your own to earn the praise you deserve?"
Watching the black-eyed girl's face stretch in surprise, I almost burst out laughing. No way! I couldn't have guessed that, could I?
"You are very perceptive, Orochimaru-san," the Uchiha lowered her head, trying to hide the blush creeping across her cheeks.
Huh. Must run in the family. Or maybe it's a shared trait across the whole clan—some kind of kekkei genkai quirk? Funny, Mikoto. Very funny.
After giving her another careful look and concluding there was hardly likely to be another Mikoto in Konoha, I accepted it as fact: standing before me was the possible future mother of Sasuke. For some reason, I had always thought she only became an Uchiha after marriage.
"Well, with that kind of dedication, I have no doubt you'll become an excellent jonin in the future," I said, doing my best to sound as serious as possible. "Oh, Nawaki—where exactly are you hiding such a courteous representative of a founding clan within yourself? And more importantly… why?"
"And where do you hide your powerful techniques? And why?" the brat shot back, mimicking me with a scowl.
"Heh-heh-heh," I chuckled unpleasantly, narrowing my eyes as I deftly smacked the Senju upside the head again. "Since you're so eager… See that obstacle course?" I nodded toward an area simulating a windfall. "If you make it through, I'll teach you one of the most useful techniques a shinobi can have."
"Ha!" Nawaki didn't buy it. "What's the catch?"
"I set traps there yesterday," I hissed, stretching my lips into a serpentine grin. "Nothing lethal. If you really mess up, you'll be out of the hospital in a month at most. So, ready to take the risk?"
"Easy!" he confirmed and dashed forward.
He went down already on the fourth step.
Just tripped on flat ground and planted his face straight into the grass. After lying there for a couple of seconds, the Senju slowly got up and continued the course much more cautiously.
"Orochimaru-san," Mikoto called quietly, "there aren't actually any traps there, are there?"