Three bowls of warm rice, grilled saury and miso soup with tofu laid across the long table.  Fyodor was already mixing the pieces of fish with the rice, squeezing drops of light shoyu and sipping down the soup wholeheartedly. Meanwhile, Kouji was observing Arakan who was staring at the bowl of rice. It was not the food that he was gazing at, it was the empty space in between his eyes and whatever that his vision came into contact with. He wanted to be stronger but he was lost in a maze of thoughts. How was he supposed to asked Fyodor to train him? He looked towards Fyodor nervously, it felt so wrong to simply ask a man to teach him an art form when his only met him a few hours ago. At the same time, there was a burning desire in his chest to be a skillful swordsman. Despite that, he nudged away the thought. After all, there was no point racking his brains around with an empty stomach. It was the first meal he had since he forced the corpses down his throat and he was looking forward to it all day. He thanked God for providence and  picked up the chopsticks to feast on his meal. At that very moment, he was interrupted by a voice from across the table.

"Yo old man, you don't mind us using the back of the store for practice right?"

"As long as you don't disturb the neighbours... Those fools are always complaining about loud screaming in the early mornings. I can't feign ignorance any longer if you keep up the samurai act. Go serve under a Lord once you get good!"

The exchange between Fyodor and Kouji sparked a star of interest in Arakan. Practice? Arakan knew that meant swordfighting and assumed that the 'we' in the statement was referring to him and  Fyodor. Eager to test out his skills against Fyodor, Arakan gulped down the soup and attempted to finish the whole bowl of rice and grilled fish as fast as he could.

"No need to rush, didn't expect you to be this eager to get your ass whooped!"

"My father was a renowned samurai you know. I'll definitely beat you!"

"You sure tell good jokes. See you."

With that, Fyodor walked away from the dining table while raising his hands. Arakan who was sitting cross legged, stood up and followed suit. The two would meet again at the back of the store, in the room that Arakan would be sharing with Fyodor. In other words, his new home.

"Man... Where did I place the wooden swords? This place is so small yet so packed!"

Fyodor looked vivaciously around the messy room that was about three by three meters. His arms slit into the piles of clothing and when he finally found the wooden swords, he beamed a wide grin. He turned around to look at Arakan who was leaning against the wall with two swords in his hands. The swords were dull bladed and posed no threat when it came to sparring. One of the swords was thrown across the room as Arakan stumbled around to reach for it.

"Take your stance. I want you to go all out and try to take my life with the sword. That's the only way to test your skills as our abilities in swordsmanship are too far apart"

"You sound really serious... Almost like a different person altogether"

There was no response. It was only now that Arakan's eyes had noticed the huge, slashing scar that was embedded down his neck, it was almost like a wound given by an enemy that tried to behead him and there were countless calluses atop his palms as he tightly grabbed the sword from his waistline. He took a peculiar stance, his meaty legs were propped up in a southpaw stance, parallel to each other while his knees were slightly bent and his toes tipping against the wooden planks below him allowing him to balance himself on the balls of his feet. The blade angled about 135 degrees to the right as he held the handle like a samurai would hold a katana, both hands atop each other grabbing tightly with each of his five knuckles opposing the other. His arms were bent towards him and his right shoulder pointed straight towards Arakan. The two azure eyes that gleamed under the dim light of the room sharply pierced through Arakan's soul, Fyodor's true aura which seemed to be shielded all this while it showed itself. It was the aura of a man who slayed a thousand beasts and dedicated his whole life towards creating the most brutal style of swordsmanship. Arakan felt as though he was already cut multiple times just by locking eyes with his opponent. Nevertheless, he took his stance as well, emulating the style his father would take when he secretly practiced in the early mornings knowing full well that he was no longer samurai. The conventional stance that the majority of the samurai would take when engaging a single opponent. His legs stretched about shoulder width apart from each other, the left facing his opponent while the right faced outwards with a slight bent to his knees. The blade was pointed  upwards, in a  standing position on the same level as his ears as he faced Fyodor. Both his elbows flared to balance the sword well, his grip was aligned with his right shoulder and his ten knuckles stacked atop of each other in a straight line. The stance was made to be unpredictable as the blade was balanced in a way that is neutral, making it impossible for the enemy to know the sweeping motion of the blade when its user swings it . However, from the perspective of  Arakan, Fyodor's stance was unmatched,  an iron fortress with no openings. He froze.

"Are you not gonna strike me? Come on now, show me the spirit of your father!"

Arakan felt insulted. The fact that Fyodor brought up Masaemon knowing darn well that he was dead felt like a stab to the gut. In his mind, he knew that Fyodor was just goading him to recklessly attack and respond with a counter. Breathing out a sigh to focus and shake off his opponent's provocation, Arakan visualised the strike that he planned out in his mind. From his position, he would rapidly spring up against Fyodor to close up his range of attack and feint a diagonal, circular motion slice that targeted the right side of Fyodor's throat from Arakan's perspective to trigger him to block the swing. This will then create an opening for Arakan to slip into the opposing side of Fyodor's ribcage to finish him off with a hard, upward strike to his liver, a vital point that would bring down even the strongest of men. In the case that Fyodor was simply a monster and would still end up standing after the strike, Arakan would step out of Fyodor's range of attack to evade any sort of counter that could hit him.  After revising the strategy in his head multiple times in a matter of a second, Arakan materialised his plan. Like a bolt of lightning, he leaped forward to close the gap against Fyodor expecting him to reposition himself in a defensive manner. After all, the first strike was simply a feint and a gateway for him to deliver the second and Fyodor had to react defensively for his scheme to work.

Bap! Arakan's wooden sword clashed against Fyodor's as he switched to a defensive position, his sword facing downwards diagonally to protect the side of his throat. It was a soft strike, simply touching the other sword in a bid to shift the hit to the opening that Fyodor presented by defending himself. A gust of wind from below Arakan's legs could be felt by him and then followed by a squeezing pain that felt like his flesh was being clawed and pulled away from his bones. The pain was all focused at one point, his inner thighs. A snappy, leg kick was delivered by Fyodor masterfully. He was so quick that Arakan felt the pain without even knowing what had hit him. Arakan's face contorted and wheezed silently in pain, regardless, he still proceeded to slip into Fyodor's blind spot to deliver the final strike. Or so he wished. The pain spread throughout his entire body in a fraction of a second, this caused his swing to be not only weak but slow. No matter how hard Arakan pushed himself to move faster, he was just too slow. By the time he slipped into Fyodor's left ribcage, Fyodor had all the time in his hands to wind up his strike by lifting his wooden sword behind his head and smashing it against the wrist bone of Arakan. This time, the pain was simply too intense to endure. His sword dropped to the ground and his hands collapsed to his waist. Arakan was not only bewildered by how the current situation turned out but also confused on how he ended up slouching near the ground.  Unwilling to give up, Arakan clenched his jaw and attempted to throw a roundhouse kick towards Fyodor's hips with the little strength he mustered up. Pfurp! His legs were caught in between Fyodor's ribs and underside of his arms, by catching Arakan's snap kick, Fyodor managed to avoid taking the full force of the kick and sweeped Arakan's standing leg.  Bang! Arakan's back crashed into the hard ground as he wailed in pain. He was completely dominated by Fyodor.

"You cheater! How could you use your legs in a sword fight! That's dishonorable!"

"You say such things but you aimed a kick right at me... My style of fighting may be dishonourable to you, but what's so honourable about a sword fight in the first place? Two men trying to take each other's lives without any hesitation at all?"

"B-but..."

"A sword is like an additional joint stuck to your body so why abandon the rest of your joints? Your legs to kick, your fists to punch, your fingers to grapple. Combine every aspect of fighting to your swordsmanship. That's what it means to be a skillful fighter. Anyways, show me your hands, I'll ask Kouji for some wraps and medicine."

Arakan felt enlightened. For the first time in his life he heard such an absurd but logical idea. Why focus on the sharp sword alone when he could focus on every part of his body to add to his combat repertoire. He glared at Fyodor with sparkles in his eyes. Arakan knew deep down, he wanted to learn the way of the sword from this man. He wanted Fyodor to guide him and inherit his style of fighting. The style was just too unique, never had he imagined in his wildest dreams a sword style that emphasised more on hand to hand combat than to use the sword itself. 

"What's with that hopeful look on your face? Son of a samurai eh? Hahaha!"

"Fyo, teach me. I want to learn your style of swordsmanship, this will help me get stronger. I just know it will."

Arakan shifted the humorous mood that Fyodor suggested to a serious one. Fyodor, who realised this simply nodded his head and gestured to him to get his hand treated by Kouji. In sheer pain, Arakan assisted his wounded right hand by laying it above his right hand and slowly dragged his foot away from the room. Despite all that, he had a small grin on his face. He enjoyed the battle as much as he was hurt by it, the idea of learning a style that was unseen before in the country really shook his heart that was palpating with sheer fervor. Arakan had already taken one step forward in his journey to be the strongest swordsman. Kouji who was lifting the rice bags for sale tomorrow at the front of the store saw Arakan from the corner of his eye. 

"You got your ass beat right? I guess that's expected. Fyodor's the same monster that refused to serve the current shogun, Lord Terukada as a personal retainer and guard in the royal capital, Toru."

"He rejected the Shogun?! Why would he do that when he could have lived a comfortable life in the castle?"

"I don't know kid. Whatever it is, don't tell him that I told you this. He's not very fond of his past after all. I'm getting oden from Mitsu's place, you wanna come along after you get your hands fixed?"

Arakan nodded and gave his bruised hand to Kouji who rubbed some pain relieving medicine onto his wrist. Once in a while, Arakan writhed in pain after his palms were dipped in cold water from the wall and wrapped up. As the two of them made their way out of the store, Fyodor was still cooped in his room. Sitted at the corner, his vision strayed and reached the charcoal-black sword that belonged to Arakan. There was a very small inscription at the edge of the scabbard, engraved in traditional letters, 'The Dragon'.

"Can't believe that old geezer got taken out by Matsumoto's men. Fuck, his son fights hard too eh... And he's 12! I guess I'll use this opportunity to thank him by being a brother to his son. Rest in peace, Masaemon. I'll turn Arakan to be the warrior you wanted to be."

Fyodor clapped his hands together and remained in that position. In his heart, he prayed for Masaemon as his softly gazed at the katana. With the tip of his index and middle finger, he lifted up the fabric covering his ribs only to see the area near his live was purplish blue in colour. Since his skin was so pale, the bruise was even more apparent. He made his way to the kitchen hastily and applied the ointment that Seiji used on Arakan. Despite catching Arakan's kick, the power behind it still managed to leave a mark on Fyodor. He left the shop and stood in front of it, his head tilted upwards, calmly looking at the sea of stars spread across the vast black sky. Maybe in a separate universe somewhere, Masaemon was still alive and thriving. A small smile unfolded from his lips as a single tear raced down his cheeks.

"I won't disappoint you Masaemon. Your child will be an even greater swordsman than you've ever envisioned yourself to be."