Jobless Man’s Zombie Survival Life - Chapter 43: Nakamura Martial Arts Store

Chapter 43: Nakamura Martial Arts Store

T/N: Bouzo is basically calling someone a “kid”, it can be taken in a rude way, but if its said from your master or someone you admire, its normal.

“…Nine o’clock, huh.”

The day after my shelter stay ended and I returned to my home routine.

I dragged myself out of bed.

Got too hyped last night, binging DVDs I’d scavenged before.

Fell asleep around… three, maybe?

Sleeping when I want, waking when I want—best life ever!!

I’ll laze around all morning… Got plenty of supplies.

The community center’s basement stash too.

More than enough for just me.

Oh, crap, gotta water the veggies…

“Another great day, and the cigarette’s tasty!”

Smoking in the garden, I almost forget the world’s crawling with zombies.

The veggies are growing nicely.

Potatoes especially—can multiply with seed tubers, and with Miyata-san’s soybeans, I’ll keep cultivating.

…Maybe convert a nearby field or someone’s yard.

Yukiko-chan’s place feels wrong to use.

That ossan’s buried there—a rotting, useless lump, not even good for fertilizer.

How long will this zombie mess last?

Not forever, but I doubt it’ll end in a year.

With canned goods and emergency food, I’ve got maybe three years.

So, I need sustainable food or rescue by then, or it’s starvation.

Three years… feels long yet short.

All I can manage is growing stuff and fishing.

Plus scavenging.

Need more knowledge too.

Well, solo me can skulk around and survive.

If I fail, only I die.

Easy enough.

※

“Crap…”

I planned to stay home all day, but there’s a problem.

“My uchiko powder and oil are running low…”

Both are essentials for sword maintenance.

Uchiko powder’s basically finely ground whetstone—think samurai in period dramas tapping their blades.

The oil’s clove oil, used to prevent rust.

I won’t run out immediately, but in times like these, you grab what you can when you can.

So, an unplanned trip it is.

※

A twenty-minute drive from home.

I’m at the edge of the South District.

Passed through here on the way to the next town before.

Nakamura Martial Arts Store

A quaint, historic single-story shop in a quiet shopping street.

This place has been my go-to since elementary school.

Back then, it was kendo shinai, armor, and uniforms.

As an adult, real swords, maintenance supplies, and sword dealer intros.

All three of my blades came through their connections.

Like my neighborhood, zombies are scarce here.

The shop shows no signs of looting.

The owner and his wife ran it—hope they’re okay.

…They’re definitely fine.

I’m sure of it.

Why? Because—

While I’m lost in thought out front, a scraping sound hits my right side.

Couldn’t read the presence!?

I whip my bokken up, blocking a strike.

The attacker’s weapon is also a bokken.

Standard thickness, but the impact’s heavy.

This isn’t an amateur!

They know how to swing—really well.

I parry, leap left, and face the attacker, bokken ready.

It’s a medium-built figure, likely male, in a helmet, goggles, mask, and samue outfit.

They take a relaxed, low stance.

…Damn, no openings.

Can’t predict their next move.

I shoulder my bokken in my usual stance, facing off.

No chance to draw my real sword.

Gotta fight with the bokken.

They glide forward, barely bobbing, like they’re hovering.

They shift into an upward cut.

I feint an overhead strike, then swing a sideways slash.

Aiming to snap their bokken, but they smoothly deflect mine.

So skilled!

I pull my bokken back, catching their slash at the base.

Trying to overpower them, but they dodge with clever weight shifts.

I backstep to gain distance, but they stick to me like glue.

Insanely sharp instincts.

Not young, yet that speed and reflexes!?

“Gah!?”

They land a parting thrust to my solar plexus.

The shock feels like it pierced my back.

Even with my inner layer, I want to puke.

No good—pure swordsmanship, they’re leagues above me.

I’ll lose if this drags on.

Gotta get tricky.

I take an upper stance, steadying my breath.

They hold a low stance, watching.

I lunge, feinting a karatake split—

—but loosen my grip, dropping the bokken straight down.

I kick the handle with my boot, sending it flying at them.

Nagumo-ryu secret technique one: Flying Swallow

Normally, you’d kick a wakizashi or dagger, but I used the bokken.

…Cool name, though.

Caught off guard, they knock the flying bokken aside.

Their balance wavers, showing a gap.

I dive low, twisting my scabbard with my left hand, and unleash an upward iaido slash.

Take this!

But they dodge, leaning back.

My slash only cuts a mask strap.

This guy’s a monster! Dodging that blind!?

I pull the sword back, leaping away to a low stance.

…If that didn’t work, what’s next?

Their mask falls, revealing the lower half of their face.

As expected, older—deep wrinkles around the mouth.

Wait.

Looks familiar…

“Mondo-occhan…?”

“Figured it was you, Tanakano-bouzu.”

The voice is familiar too.

They raise their helmet’s shield.

I lift my goggles.

“You got one hell of a scar. Almost thought you were someone else.”

“You’re one to talk, occhan, with all that gear.”

Smirking and lowering his stance, it’s the manager of Nakamura Martial Arts Store.

Nakamura Mondo-san.

It’s a pseudonym.

He’s gone by it since I was in elementary school.

Why? He loves a certain hitman drama and matched his surname to it.

He claims to have mastered the show’s sword styles too—a true fanatic.

His look even resembles that drama’s laid-back official, so everyone calls him that.

“But Nagumo-ryu… that’s some nasty stuff you pull.”

“I was desperate! Had to go dirty to stand a chance…”

“You came at me with killing intent, bouzu. You’ve cut people down, haven’t you? Plenty.”

“…I’d claim self-defense.”

Can a master like him sense that?

“Idiot, it’s written all over your face. Just a hunch.”

…He’s just like that drama guy.

“Besides, I’ve done plenty of killing too. Zombies, punks, you name it.”

“…Is that why there’s barely any zombies around here?”

“Sent most to nirvana. Then humans started prowling instead.”

Zombies were easier, Mondo-occhan sighs.

Glad he’s doing well.

Never worried he’d lose to zombies or punks.

Didn’t expect me to get jumped, though.

“So, what’s up today? No food to spare, sorry.”

“Not here for food. Need clove oil and uchiko powder…”

“Maintenance stuff, huh? This mess started right after a shipment, so I’ve got tons.”

Sweet, problem solved.

“ATMs are down, so I’ve only got cash. That okay?”

“Money’s just kindling now. No valuables either, so take what you need, old friend.”

Too generous.

Oh, one more thing…

“You a customer? Come in… Ichirouta-chan!”

“Auntie! You’re looking lively!”

The shop door opens, and a familiar face peeks out.

“…Ichirouta-chan, you’ve grown into such a fine man!”

Tearing up at my face is occhan’s wife, Sachiko-san.

She’s always been a caring, tough-as-nails mom figure.

“Hey, bouzu, come in. Chat’s your payment.”

“Sure, I’ll intrude.”

I’m led through the shop to their living space.

I’ve had dinner here plenty, so it’s like a second home.

Sipping tea Sachiko-san brewed, I recount everything.

“Sounds rough out there. Here’s peaceful, thanks to my guy cleaning things up.”

“Not bad for you, bouzu. Still screwing up from carelessness, huh? Remember that junior high inter-high…”

“Occhan! Don’t dig up my embarrassing past!”

We talk, with occasional jabs.

Zombies.

The shelter.

People I’ve met.

“…Still, Miyata’s kid running the shelter? Shocker. Knew he wasn’t dead, though.”

“Little Goujirou-chan’s all grown up, huh?”

“Wait, you guys know Miyata-san?”

“Long history with his dad. Both generations are our judo gear customers.”

Small world…

But Goujirou-chan…?

No way I can picture Miyata-san as cute!

“Oh, occhan, got any whetstones? My old sword’s chipped bad…”

“Chopped bones in a rush, huh? Carelessness is your worst enemy, like I always say.”

“Hit me to the bone, literally…”

“Chicks dig scars, bouzu. Makes you manlier.”

“Yeah, right…”

Occhan laughs heartily.

“Sharpening’s no quick trick. Amateurs are better off not trying.”

“…Figured.”

“Of course. It’s not like sharpening sickles or knives. Bring it next time—I’ll do it.”

“You can sharpen, occhan!?”

“How long you think I’ve dealt with swords? My iaido rank’s double yours. Not pro-level, but better than amateur.”

A savior so close!

Too kind!

…But I feel bad mooching.

Anything I can help with?

“Thanks, occhan. But I can’t keep taking without giving back. Anything I can do?”

“Don’t sweat it, kid… But that’s just you, huh?”

He knows my annoying side well.

“Still, not much to do. Our garden’s small, and we’ve got well and spring water…”

“I’m not struggling either…”

Both grumble in thought.

Their life’s practically self-sustaining.

Way more put-together than my place.

“Oh! Got something. Hey, bouzu…”

Occhan claps his hands and starts talking.