The Man Who Remained — His Second Life Began with a Humble Bow of Apology. - Chapter 103: Thunderclap (Part Two).

Thunderclap (Part Two).

Living a righteous life is no easy feat.

No one in this world is free from mistakes. And unless one is extraordinarily fortunate, it’s almost impossible to live with unwavering confidence in their own way of life.

Precisely because of that, to take pride in living righteously is incredibly difficult… and therefore, profoundly strong.

Even with the support of Cross, facing someone of Sourin’s overwhelming caliber, Unyou believed he had lived his life righteously—enough to land at least a single meaningful blow.

He was always broke, constantly mooching off others, often starting fights and causing trouble. Even so, Unyou truly believed he was living an honest life, in his own way.

But of course, that alone wasn’t enough to win.

One doesn’t triumph over a man like Sourin—his way of life, his entire being—so easily.

He knew from the start that his path was twisted.

He had killed his father, killed his mother, and now intended to have one of his sons kill him. There was no way that could be called “right.”

And yet, it was through such means that the Kiryuu family maintained its position as the protectors of Nakazato through the ages.

And so—be it as an outcast, or as a demon—they chose to endure.

If he was to be called a rakshasa, then he would see it through to the end.

Until that final moment came, he would stay true to the path he had carved.

That was the vow Sourin had made in his heart.

And that end—it could not be now.

For what he bore on his back was far too heavy to be broken by something as feeble as this… the lukewarm blade of his own son.

The wound was anything but shallow.

A human would have surely died. Even a demon would be unable to move unless their body was exceptionally refined.

Even so, Sourin neither collapsed nor fell.

The will to fight still burned in his eyes—undaunted, undimmed.

“I never once thought a wound like that would be enough to take you down,” Cross murmured.

Right before Sourin’s eyes.

Closer than any swordsman should ever be, far within striking distance—well past the range where one could even react.

And there Cross stood.

Yes… Cross never let his guard down, even against those far stronger.

He had fought demons in the fragile body of a human, struggling relentlessly—so he understood.

To let your guard down before a formidable opponent… is sheer foolishness.

A sharp crack echoed in the air—like the shattering of metal.

In that moment, the weight of Sourin’s soul vanished from his hand.

“Barehanded…? Remarkable.”

Sourin gave those words as a form of praise to Cross, who had shattered his blade without even drawing one of his own.

“Ordinary swords wouldn’t break so easily. But these blades of ours—compared to your weapons—are far more fragile.”

“Indeed. They’re optimized for cutting. That makes them weak to lateral impacts—”

Sourin trailed off, tossing aside the now useless hilt and scabbard of his beloved sword.

Cross let out a soft sigh and stepped back, putting distance between them.

Watching the exchange, Unyou muttered,

“Did… we win?”

Hearing that, Cross chuckled bitterly.

“Idiot. Look closely. Does that look like the face of a man who’s lost?”

Prompted, Unyou turned to look at Sourin.

And then he understood why Cross had sighed.

It wasn’t the face of a man who’d quietly accepted defeat.

It was the face of a beast.

The best comparison might be a wounded wolf—cornered and defiant.

Sourin’s usual carefree expression as a swordsman had vanished, replaced by raw animal ferocity.

“Well done, Cross-dono. Had you come with the intent to kill, I may well have lost here and now.”

“Hah. And nothing for your son?”

“Nothing. To have created such an opening only to squander it with a feeble strike—he is unworthy of my words. …However, I will concede this: if this were a proper duel, between swordsmen, between masters of the Kiryuu school… I would count this as a defeat. Therefore—from this point onward, I shall abandon my role as head of the family. As a mere rakshasa, I will face you both. A beast that will kill all in its path to protect the village.”

With those words, Sourin’s very presence changed.

His expression and posture remained the same.

But the aura around him—the atmosphere itself—shifted.

“…Beastfolk, perhaps? Or something of that nature?” Cross mused.

Sourin gave no answer. He merely allowed his beastlike essence to rise to the surface.

That alone was answer enough.

“Beastfolk, huh… I’ve never seen him grow ears or a tail or anything,” Unyou remarked.

“A failed one,” Sourin replied flatly.

“Failed…?”

“I was born without ears or a tail. I look completely human. That makes me a failure. There’s nothing to hide—this is who I’ve always been.”

“I see. So does that mean I inherited any of that from you?”

“I don’t know. But likely not. You’ve got that clear demonic horn, after all.”

From appearance to aura, from race to presence—there was nothing about Sourin and Unyou that suggested they were father and son.

Aside from the faint similarity in their presence, nothing linked them.

Which is why Sourin believed his failed traits had not been passed on.

And perhaps, it was better that way. Power born of failure shouldn’t be passed on.

The truth is—even Sourin himself didn’t fully understand what he was.

Both of his parents were oni, and yet he bore traits of beasts.

That contradiction remained unsolved.

His traits were weak, diluted, mixed.

Had things gone as expected, perhaps he’d have grown fur, fangs, claws—features befitting a true beast.

Or perhaps become something else entirely.

But none of that had happened.

He hadn’t changed.

Born in human form, lacking the superhuman strength of an oni, and devoid of any special dexterity—Sourin had been a failure from the start.

Yet still, he clung to hope.

He trained, believing that maturity would awaken his hidden potential.

But as he grew, what he came to realize was simply this: he was, indeed, a failure.

Still, he did not give up. He trained harder. He climbed higher.

He struggled onward.

And at the end of that road—what emerged from his body, what manifested as his true trait—was something wholly unsuited to the Kiryuu school of swordsmanship.

When it emerged, his father and mother were disappointed.

They had never expected much, but even so, they felt the sting of disillusionment.

So Sourin rarely used that power.

Because even if he won with it, it wouldn’t be a victory as the head of the Kiryuu family.

It wouldn’t be a victory forged through the swordsmanship he had refined.

But now… he had no other means left.

He could not lose to someone like Unyou—not here, not like this.

And so, Sourin chose to reveal the shameful power within him.

“…Yes. I’m a failure. I bear no striking traits. But there is one thing… one thing that might pass as a feature. Yes—this is what you might call… my fang.”

As he spoke, Sourin raised his left hand for Cross and Unyou to see.

His ring finger bent unnaturally.

At the center of his palm, a small tear began to widen.

The wound split further, rupturing blood vessels, spilling blood.

His bones groaned and cracked audibly.

Yet Sourin remained composed.

By the time Cross and Unyou realized it, something like the hilt of a bloodstained sword had emerged from the wound.

Sourin gripped it with his right hand—and, amid the sounds of tearing flesh and shattering bone, he drew it out.

Slowly, steadily, the blood-soaked blade revealed itself.

It looked like a single, long fang.

Once fully drawn, its length far exceeded his left arm.

Well over a meter—closer to a nodachi than a katana.

He held the ivory-colored blade in his right hand, not his left, and flicked off the blood.

“Drawn Blade—Awakening.”

As Sourin whispered those words, the sword transformed.

The hilt became striped in warning yellow and black.

The pale, fang-like blade turned jet black—gleaming with a dull, lethal shine.

This sword was the embodiment of Sourin.

His steel.

The trait that had emerged after a lifetime of struggle—ill-suited to Kiryuu swordsmanship, yet undeniably his own.

Though it rejected all he had built, that sword was Sourin’s very self.

Taking a stance foreign to the Kiryuu school—blade pointed behind, body turned sideways—Sourin prepared.

And in that moment, killing intent exploded.

Not just the bloodlust of the old Sourin—but a second, primal, feral intent.

It poured from the great blade.

“Come whenever you’re ready.”

With those words, Sourin left the timing of their renewed battle in the hands of Cross and Unyou.

“…That’s about two meters, isn’t it?”

Unyou murmured quietly.

“Nah, more like one seventy. It’s shorter than Sourin’s. The blade itself… probably around one-fifty.”

“…You’re really good at estimating blade length from a side stance, Cross.”

“It’s all about experience. So—what’s the plan?”

“You got anything in your arsenal that can handle a nodachi like that?”

“Give me ten seconds.”

“What kind of answer is that…? Alright then, I’ll buy you ten. Go.”

At Unyou’s word, Cross retreated toward the rear.

Unyou turned to face Sourin, narrowing his eyes and raising his blade.

His sword wasn’t particularly short.

But against that oodachi, it felt almost comically inadequate.

Even with those uneasy thoughts plaguing him, Sourin didn’t press the attack. He remained perfectly still in his side stance, unmoving.

“…You’re not going to make the first move?”

Sourin ignored the taunt.

Apparently, he truly intended to wait for a proper signal before resuming combat.

And then Cross returned—now wielding an enormous two-handed sword with a straight blade.

The thick, broad weapon—commonly referred to as a Zweihander—measured nearly a full meter in blade length. Cross held it upright with unwavering focus.

The battle resumed. Steel clashed several times between them.

And the verdict?

Sourin’s oodachi wasn’t as terrifying as it looked.

He could no longer perform those sharp, flowing sword techniques he once used. His movements were heavy, forceful, and telegraphed.

Unyou’s blade couldn’t withstand the force directly, but it was light enough to dodge. And when he couldn’t, Cross would intercept with his greatsword.

While the shockwaves from that massive weapon caused minor lacerations, they avoided direct hits.

In fact, fighting Sourin in his current state—between Cross and Unyou—it was actually more manageable than earlier.

They now understood why Sourin never used that oodachi.

And why that power was ill-suited for the Kiryuu school’s style of swordsmanship.

But precisely because of that… they failed to realize the true nature of Sourin’s killing intent.

And by the time they did, more than ten minutes had passed since the second phase of the battle had begun.

As the sweeping horizontal strike of the oodachi came in, Unyou stepped back, narrowly evading it.

Cross stepped forward in his place and caught the swing with his greatsword.

It was a move they’d repeated several times: Cross intercepts, creating an opening for Unyou to counter.

But this time, something was different.

Though he blocked it as usual, Cross was sent flying backward.

Without losing any momentum, he slammed into the wall surrounding the house’s perimeter.

“Cross!?”

Unyou cried out, eyes tracking the impact.

“…That’s why you’re still inexperienced.”

Sourin murmured, thrusting the oodachi forward.

The force of the thrust stirred the wind—like a raging beast charging straight ahead.

“Too unstable to deflect… too distracted to dodge.”

Unyou couldn’t evade.

“—Tch.”

Sourin stopped the thrust midway, shifting his body aside.

At that same moment, a throwing knife buried itself into the ground where he had just stood.

“Unyou. Don’t let your guard down!”

Cross’s voice rang out as he staggered back into view.

“Damn, you okay!?”

“…I’ve got bad news, really bad news, and some worst-case-scenario news.”

Still joking despite his condition, Cross’s body looked battered—likely with a bone or two out of place.

“…Let’s hear them in order.”

“Okay. Bad news first: that hit bent my sword. Should’ve just taken the fall instead of using it to break my momentum.”

“If you’re still alive, that’s good enough. Now for the really bad news?”

“Honestly? I don’t even know how long I can keep fighting. The sword won’t hold much longer, and I might not either.”

He was only still standing thanks to the magic coursing through his body. If it stopped for even a moment, he would likely collapse on the spot.

That’s how severe the damage was.

“…There’s something worse than that?”

In response, Cross held up his right arm.

There, just below the elbow, was a small, almost imperceptible cut.

It had happened when he blocked the oodachi—not from direct contact, but merely from the shock.

From that tiny wound, a faint greenish hue bled out with the blood.

“Sourin’s weapon—it’s poisoned. And not the good kind. It works even without direct contact.”

That explained why Cross’s footing had become unstable.

He and Unyou locked eyes, and both let out a dry, bitter chuckle.

The situation was so dire, laughter was the only option left.

“…Do we run?”

To that, Cross shook his head.

“You really think we can?”

“…If I stay back and cover—”

“Well, the question is: what kind of poison is this? If it worsens over time… there’s no way I’m getting out of here. But you might, if I stay behind.”

“That’s not happening. So now what?”

They both stepped apart and turned to face Sourin.

The good news was: they had time to talk now, between exchanges.

The bad news was: each attack was becoming heavier, more lethal.

What were they supposed to do?

As he stared at the massive oodachi, Cross finally understood part of the strange, lingering killing intent surrounding it.

One of the primal instincts tied to Sourin’s beast-like presence.

It was… a wasp.

Not just a poisonous creature—but one that ensures death with its sting.

Now, with poison coursing through him, Cross realized the truth:

That sword wasn’t just powerful. It was born of a venomous beast—a wasp-type monster.

And its sting had already begun to work its way through his veins.