The Man Who Remained — His Second Life Began with a Humble Bow of Apology. - Chapter 104: Thunderclap (Part Three).

Thunderclap (Part Three).

Sourin held his Oodachi in a wakigamae stance—sword turned behind his back, body half-turned.

[TL: ‘Oodachi in a wakigamae stance’ – A greatsword held in a side-ready stance.]

A form that hindered conventional attacks but made counters easier, and more importantly, obscured the blade’s length, making it difficult to judge distance.

Maintaining that stance, Sourin addressed Cross, who now stood alone before him.

“Finished with your discussion?”

The look in Cross’s eyes was so intense that it prompted the question from Sourin.

“Yeah. Well, I’ve left the rest to Unyou. My job now is to create an opening.”

Cross readied his nearly broken greatsword, even as the poison coursing through his body drained his strength.

“I still don’t understand why you’d place your faith in that fool of a son… If it’s you, Cross-sama, I imagine you could defeat me here and now.”

“Yeah, if I’m being honest, I probably could. It’d come with risks, sure… but yeah, I could’ve ended this sooner. Even now, it’s not impossible.”

“Then why choose this path—”

“Because it would mean your death, Sourin.”

“…So you show mercy, even if it may kill you?”

He had hoped that the man once called a sage, one who had survived countless battles, might be more rational. It seemed that hope had been in vain.

That was the impression Sourin held of Cross.

“Hah. You wear your thoughts on your face, you know. But you’re not wrong. From your perspective, it must look absurd. Honestly, I’d feel the same if I were you.”

“Then it’s not too late. Forget that fool—why don’t you—”

“—Don’t insult me, idiot. You think someone like me—someone who’s stained their blade and thrown away their soul just to kill—has any right to look down on someone who’s stained their soul for the sake of another? Just shut up and come at me already.”

Cross laughed—yet in his voice was fury.

Sourin understood. He received that conviction in silence, poured all his murderous intent into the Oodachi—and struck.

Cross ducked low, palm skimming the floor, as he narrowly avoided the wide, sweeping slash.

Before Cross could counter, Sourin had already pulled his blade back, raised it high, and brought it down like a guillotine.

Cross raised his greatsword to parry the descending strike.

Cross’s greatsword was monstrously heavy—heavier even than Sourin’s Oodachi. Though its blade was shorter, it was thick and broad. Unlike katana, such blades lacked sharpness but compensated with extreme durability.

But that durability came at the cost of speed and fluidity. It was why Cross struggled to find a moment to attack.

The sweeping slash from wakigamae—
It was Sourin’s most basic attack.
It wasn’t swordsmanship in the traditional sense, but rather a calculated spread of poison—efficient and deadly.

That’s why he preferred sweeping arcs over pinpoint thrusts—
And this time, the sweep was so low, even crouching wouldn’t let one escape.

Cross jumped.

He knew Sourin wanted him to—but had no other option.

Sourin stopped the slash midway and switched to an upward strike, targeting Cross mid-air.

Cross had anticipated that too.

Twisting in the air like an acrobat, he brought his greatsword down in a desperate overhead strike.

A screech of metal on metal.

The greatsword shattered.

Normally, a katana—or any sword of that kind—would break first.
But this Oodachi wasn’t just a weapon. It was Sourin himself. It would not break so easily.

“—Hmph.”

Sourin watched Cross kick away the Oodachi and close the distance. In Cross’s hand was a short dagger—shockingly small.

So this was his trump card.

Before the Oodachi could return for another strike, Cross closed the gap and slashed with the dagger.

Sourin saw it—and smiled faintly.

They passed each other, back to back.

Cross crumpled and collapsed behind him.

In Sourin’s left hand, a short sword known as a kodachi—its blade stained with red.

“It seems we both had the same hidden card,” Sourin murmured.

Still lying on the ground, Cross rolled onto his back.
A round, bloody wound had formed near his ribs.
Even so, he laughed—lifting the dagger into the air.

“Heh. Don’t underestimate my partner.”

“Your partner? You mean that foolish son of yours?”

“No. This is my partner.”

He twirled the dagger between his fingers— And then it happened.

The guard on Sourin’s Kodachi snapped.
The weapon broke apart, falling from his hand as the blade embedded itself into the ground.

“…Magnificent. Even with these eyes, I couldn’t see what you did.”

With a smile, Cross fell unconscious.

So far, all according to plan.

He had eliminated what was likely Sourin’s last backup strategy and created an opening—
All while weakened by poison.

Unyou looked on with deep gratitude and respect.
And then, with resolve, he gripped his sword.

What stood before him now—was the very reason he lived.
The wall he had to overcome to be true to himself.

The clash of blades rang out.

But it was too one-sided to be called a battle.

Of course it was.

One was a man who had devoted his life to killing.
He had slain his parents, his siblings, even his own will.
Kill, kill, kill—until nothing remained but a steely will honed for death.

The other still clung to the belief that you didn’t have to kill—
Even in the middle of a fight to the death.

There was no way it could be balanced.

Steel met steel. Will clashed with will.
And with each strike, Unyou’s blade was repelled—chipped away.

But if he didn’t press forward, he couldn’t win.
And the more he held back, the more lopsided it would become.

That was why Unyou continued to withstand Sourin’s blows, waiting—watching—for an opening.

“…I must admit, I’m envious. If it were me, I’d have lost my arm by now just blocking these attacks.”

So said the demon-bodied Sourin.

“Well, I envy you, y’know. That massive sword of yours—it’s flashy. Looks badass.”

“…A useless thing. A power I never needed to inherit the Kiryu name.”

“Even so—you’re wielding it now.”

“Because it’s all I have left. You should thank Cross-sama. If my blade hadn’t broken, you’d already be dead.”

“Oh, I will thank him. After I’ve taken you down!”

Unyou roared—and barely avoided the next swing.

“—Hmph.”

Sourin hadn’t expected that.

Just like with Cross, Unyou was already dodging before the blade moved.
As though he could read Sourin’s very intent.

So this… is the end.

Sourin began to draw his blade back, knowing it wouldn’t be fast enough.

But Unyou’s sword, slower than expected, only grazed him—cutting cloth and the thinnest layer of skin.
Just around his arm.

The reason was obvious.

He had pulled back—held back the intent to kill.

“See? This is why I say you’re soft! Why don’t you strike your enemy down?! Why would you throw away your chance to win over something so trivial?! Or are you so foolish you don’t even realize you’re still weaker than me?!”

For the first time, perhaps— Unyou was yelled at by his father.

But he couldn’t agree with that fury. Not even slightly.

“My enemy isn’t you! Your enemy—is me!”

He raised his blade.

“I’m here to reject your entire life. To prove it meant nothing. That it was worthless, trash I don’t need to inherit! That’s why I came back!”

“Then try it! If you think such a childish dream can defeat me with that level of strength!”

“I will! Just watch me!”

Unyou roared again.

A cold, merciless blade—one that wouldn’t hesitate to kill even his own son.

A blade forged of pure killing intent.

And yet, Unyou’s sword was far too small to oppose it—

But he stood, unwavering.

All he had ever done was struggle.

Fated to stand against an opponent far too great, given no other path, he poured every ounce of his being into resisting—into wielding his blade with desperate determination.

That was the life Unyou had lived.

He had only one purpose.

To truly save his father—the man burdened by an unbearable weight, for whom death seemed the only salvation.

And so, the blade with which he fought back—that was Unyou’s very soul.

A blade of steel that shone red, forged from a discarded soul meant only to kill. Compared to that, his own sword must have seemed fragile… feeble. But even if all he could do was struggle—his blade, infused with a soul that burned brighter than ever, was in no way inferior.

Again and again, they clashed—will against will.

From Sourin’s perspective, Unyou was never a worthy match. He was clearly beneath him.
And yet… he couldn’t win.

Was it because he had grown sentimental?

No. Impossible.

Sourin was not so weak as to falter because of emotion. If he were, he would’ve died long ago.

Then why?

Because it wasn’t Sourin’s will that was lacking—it was Unyou’s will that was defying all reason and overpowering the difference in strength.

In battle, there are moments like that.
When resolve matters far more than raw skill.
That’s why Sourin had drowned all of his will in killing intent—to be invincible, unyielding.
And yet, for some reason, he still couldn’t bring himself to kill the man standing before him.

Unyou stepped forward—just a single step.

Sourin reacted with a sweeping slash. No… it wasn’t a conscious decision. He was made to slash. Just like before—he hadn’t meant to swing the blade, but Unyou had drawn it out of him.

Unyou didn’t block the wide arc of the Oodachi—
He took it. Straight into his abdomen.

“What—?”

Sourin muttered—but the Oodachi didn’t stop.

There was no place for hesitation in the life Sourin had lived. There was no world where it was acceptable to hesitate at the thought of killing his own son.

So he did not hesitate.
He struck, fully believing his blade would cleave Unyou in two.

But—it didn’t.

The blade bit into Unyou’s stomach and stopped.
It sank in several centimeters—but went no further.

Unyou’s hand gripped the blade of the Kodachi Sourin had dropped earlier, and he had jammed it between the Oodachi and his own body to halt its advance.

“…Didn’t walk away unscathed, but… well, looks like I managed to hold it off with just a flesh wound.”

Unyou grinned, though his face contorted in pain—poison and the gash both wreaking havoc on his body.

There was no way a wound piercing the side like that could be shallow, and the poison was spreading fast—faster, now that the blade was still touching flesh.

But this was the only way.

To stop that deadly Oodachi, equal parts offense and defense, this was the only plan that had come to Unyou’s foolhardy mind.

Tensing his abdomen to keep the sword locked in place, Unyou raised his own blade into an overhead stance.

His most practiced, most fundamental slash.

He raised his sword to strike.

Sourin released the Oodachi and stepped back.
As he did, he reached forward.

Without his Kodachi, Sourin had only one move left to make in this situation.

Kogan-Ryuu Ittou Sword Technique—Swordless Take.
Empty-handed blade interception.

A technique he had never taught Unyou.
A secret he believed unknown to him.

Which is precisely why Unyou had no way of expecting it—
That his father’s final move would be to catch the sword with his bare hands.

They had called him soft, time and time again.

Unyou’s sword had always been judged inferior to Sourin’s.

The reason was simple—he lacked the will to kill.

Father, family, the very clan itself had denied his blade.

Even so, Unyou had never wavered.

Because—if he abandoned that “softness,” if he became a sword meant only to kill, if he lost that will…

Then surely, one day, he would kill his father.

And so he endured being mocked, rejected, discarded— Even cast away the family sword.

But he never let go of his own will.

The resolve not to kill—far harder than the resolve to kill—was what Unyou had upheld to this very moment.

That blade, that conviction, that will—there was nothing soft about it.

He had lived for this moment alone.

And now, Unyou poured every ounce of the pride he had preserved into this one strike.

Sourin watched the moment of the swing—
It was unlike anything he had ever seen in Unyou.

So refined, so perfect—it was beautiful.

And then—
The blade fell.

The sound came only afterward.

Unyou.
A name meaning a time briefer than the smallest fraction of a second.

If one could swing a blade in such infinitesimal time,
No one could block it.
No one could dodge it.
Not even the strongest armor could resist it.

That was the ideal, the dream, of all swordsmen.

That was why Sourin had named his son Unyou.
In the hope that one day, he would reach that peak—
And inherit his legacy.

The blade ran through him like lightning—so fast, there wasn’t even pain.

Which is why Sourin could finally accept it.

That his own life had been meaningless.

That there was a different way.
That it was possible to grow stronger—without sacrificing everything.

Sourin looked into Unyou’s eyes.

There was no hatred.
No killing intent.
Only the unwavering weight of a life full of purpose.

And in those eyes—Sourin remembered where he had begun.

Why had he killed his family?
Why had he continued to destroy himself?

To protect the village?
To harden himself?

No… It wasn’t that complicated.

The truth was far simpler.

He just… wanted to be praised.

He wanted his parents to be proud of him.
To be kind to him.
To say well done.

That’s all he had ever wanted.

And only now, did he remember.

Sourin gently placed his hand on Unyou’s head.

He wanted to ruffle his hair, but he no longer had the strength.

“…Well done.”

That was all he managed to say—before collapsing with a peaceful, satisfied smile.