Chapter Seven: The Berserker's Predicament

“The effectiveness of a swordsman’s attack depends primarily on two aspects. First, the swordsman himself—what we might call the internal factor. Second, the target of the attack. The way these two are connected, the swordsman’s action, is what we refer to as technique,” Ryoma explained. His words might have sounded redundant—perhaps even trite to most swordsmen—but the fact that he was telling this to Qiubai meant it was far from meaningless.

“Qiubai, you tend to emphasize the internal and neglect the external in your overall awareness. That’s a bit one-sided,” Ryoma went on. Rather than teaching Qiubai step by step how to perform each move, Ryoma chose to explain something more essential. Only the most inept of teachers would try to turn their student into a mere copy of themselves by focusing solely on outward form.

Yet Qiubai did not immediately grasp what Ryoma meant. It had nothing to do with his intelligence or comprehension; he simply hadn’t realized which aspect Ryoma was referring to.

At this moment, the two stood inside the room, with Aine kneeling a short distance behind Qiubai. Ryoma’s house had already been converted into a simple dojo.

Seeing that Qiubai seemed confused, Ryoma decided to demonstrate. He set a roll of straw matting upright on the floor and gestured to Qiubai. Qiubai understood at once—the slender blade appeared in his hand, and with a single, simple stroke, he cut the mat cleanly in two.

Ryoma glanced at him without comment and replaced the straw with a wooden stake of the same thickness. Yet Qiubai cut through this as easily as before: the lower half of the stake remained unmoved, while the upper half toppled to the ground after his blade passed through. He seemed to have no trouble—except for one thing.

“You used more strength with that swing,” Ryoma observed.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Qiubai blinked. Did that really require explanation?

“Because the material changed. The wood is much harder.”

“Then why do you assume ‘cutting something harder requires greater force’?”

Wait—wasn’t that obvious? Was his common sense somehow flawed?

“That’s your peculiarity. It’s also your fundamental approach as a swordsman… you rely too much on brute strength. If you used the proper method, the same power would suffice to cut both wood and even split stone,” Ryoma continued. As he spoke, he drew Autumn Water and made a gentle stroke—once again slicing the straw mat in two, and then, with the exact same movement, cutting through the wooden stake. There was no extra force exerted.

Now Qiubai finally understood what Ryoma meant. Whether it was habit or a personal blind spot, he had simply never thought there could be another way. Unconsciously, he did indeed depend too much on his own strength. Whatever needed cutting, he always relied on sheer force.

He could even “cut iron,” but his method was always wild hacking, never the swift, clean satisfaction of a single decisive stroke. In truth, though his outward form gave no sign of it, he was on the path of the “berserker swordsman.”

Instead of seeking his opponent’s weakness, Qiubai preferred to strengthen himself and confront the foe’s strongest point head-on. This was not only his way of doing things, but also a reflection of deeper aspects of his character. In a sense, his sword was the mirror of his heart.

To put it plainly, simply, and logically: Qiubai liked to meet force with force.

If something couldn’t be cut with one ton of strength, his instinct was to increase it to two tons, rather than finding a subtler way to solve the problem with the same force.

That was Qiubai—a solitary flower blooming on the heights of Qiongya; a rare specimen in the academic sense.

It wasn’t that he deliberately ignored his opponent’s weaknesses, but he was simply in the habit of targeting their strongest point. Faced with an adversary whose strength lay in a certain area, Qiubai’s instinct was always, “No matter how strong he is, I’ll be stronger.”

This wasn’t a matter of swordsmanship per se, but a more fundamental, ingrained mode of combat thinking. If he continued to fight this way, two outcomes awaited him: either he would utterly overwhelm his opponent, or he would be decisively defeated.

Such head-on clashes were bound to encounter immovable obstacles sooner or later.

Of course, this might also be because Qiubai lacked much real combat experience. Even without Ryoma’s guidance, with time and enough battles, he would eventually notice this flaw.

But that was the purpose of a teacher: while self-discovery and self-correction are valuable, Ryoma simply didn’t have that much time.

After Ryoma’s explanation, Qiubai felt as though a window had opened in his mind… and though he felt a pang of embarrassment at being seen through, he knew how to take advice. He quickly called to the girl observing from the side:

“Aine, take notes—quickly!”

Aine glanced at Qiubai. Though this was just personal instruction for him, she dutifully recorded the lesson as requested. She had a feeling that Qiubai would never look at these notes a second time, and also an odd premonition that before long, these notes would somehow get damp.

Ryoma ignored Qiubai’s command to Aine and continued, “Sensing and seeking out weaknesses is one of the foundations of swordsmanship—a basic requirement for any swordsman. It’s said that the greatest masters can ‘hear all things,’ but I regret to say I have never reached that level myself…”

“Still, to call this cultivation of spirit, energy, and mind ‘hearing all things’ is not inaccurate…”

Qiubai was momentarily startled by this, then quickly responded, “Is that… Observation Haki?”

“…You know about Haki?”

Qiubai had spoken a bit too hastily; he was still far from that level. Did he truly know Haki? Not really. “I only know that everyone possesses some sort of power called ‘Haki.’ Beyond that, I know nothing.”

This was true—if he understood Haki, he’d have started practicing long ago.

“We’ll talk about Haki later. For now, let’s focus on the immediate issue…” Ryoma paused for a moment, then changed his approach. “But since you brought it up, let’s compare the two. For the moment, let’s call the skill of seeking out weaknesses ‘hearing all things.’ Its core is ‘perception’—pure listening. The ‘Observation Haki’ you mentioned, on the other hand, is about perceiving and then reacting; immediate feedback is crucial, so they are not actually on the same level.”

It had nothing to do with Haki, and what Ryoma described was also quite different from the “Voice of All Things” rumored in the legends of the Pirate King.

Qiubai was no doubt more interested in the miraculous power of Haki, but he knew the folly of haste; the most urgent task was to address his long-standing shortcomings.

“So your next assignment is… to cut through stone with the strength you’d use to cut wood.”

“Or, to put it more bluntly: use half the power you’d normally need to cut stone. If you succeed, try again with a quarter of that strength. Only when you manage that will you be ready for the next stage,” Ryoma said.

“My time is short, and I can only teach you step by step. Whether you can master what you want to learn is up to you.” Ryoma had no intention of skipping the intermediate stages, no matter how interested Qiubai was in those higher-level powers.

That simply could not be skipped.

Hearing this, Qiubai’s expression turned a little sour. The requirement was steep, and with so little time, clearing this hurdle almost seemed impossible.

“Any hints for this training?” Qiubai asked, rubbing his hands together in an attempt at flattery.

There were none, of course.

Ryoma didn’t bother to respond. He simply moved on to instruct the other student—Aine might have seemed like a mere appendage, but since he’d decided to teach her as well, he would not show favoritism.

All the pressure now fell squarely on Qiubai’s shoulders—so what was he waiting for? He promptly ran out to start hacking away at stones.