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Kugugung—

A colossal sound that seemed to shake the earth.

With a booming roar as if the sky were collapsing, soil began to cascade down the slope, showcasing a terrifying spectacle distinct from a tsunami.

Crack!

First, a house near the mountain was smashed to bits.

Typically built with wood, the Japanese houses had no strength to withstand the deluge of earth, instantly crumbling or being swept away entirely upon impact. The sight resembled a massive wave sweeping away a ship, bobbing about before sinking.

Crunch!

Koo-woom!

As the landslide descended, it started to obliterate houses, fields, and utility poles.

Everything humans had erected was being destroyed.

The utility poles were uprooted, leaning like rotten wood, while the scattered wires hung low to the ground, colliding with one another. Depending on the materials they struck, sparks would occasionally fly, igniting small fires.

Yet, even the flames kindled were snuffed out by the rushing soil.

Kugugung—!

Kwaaaang!

It was as if the landslide was a massive wave, or a giant sweeping everything away with a gesture, resembling a blender grinding up everything man-made.

All that was swept away by the landslide collided and shattered into tiny fragments, transforming into unrecognizable debris.

Fortunately, the buildings made of concrete and rebar did not get swept away, but due to the immense pressure and the objects caught in the landslide, they suffered cracks and breakages; the glass that once clearly showcased their presence shattered and submerged into the soil.

However, if there was any silver lining amidst the misfortune…

Was there still hope even in hard times?

There were no casualties.

All the people had moved to the shelter.

A nightmare in which Ksitigarbha emerged to utter a sinister curse.

The ominous appearance of the mountain.

And on top of that, the torrential downpour!

The people did not disregard the harbinger of this calamity, clinging tightly to anyone who thought they wouldn’t evacuate, urging them to the shelter.

“Uh, uhh…”

“Wah…”

Those who moved to the shelter could only watch in a daze as the landslide occurred.

Through the CCTV footage on the TV, the window in the shelter, and the news videos streaming on smartphones, they silently observed the earth cascading down and the destruction of homes and fields.

From their mouths came neither wailing nor complaints.

When a typhoon destroyed a crop, they would curse the heavens, and if a truck accidentally plowed into a barn, injuring livestock, they wept sprawled on the ground. But now, only unarticulated groans escaped their lips.

What emotions were embedded in those groans?

Despair and helplessness as they watched their possessions being swept away.

Or perhaps fear and worry stemming from the dread of losing their belongings.

Yet also, relief from the knowledge that moving to the shelter had saved their lives.

The sounds of people’s groans and sighs merely swirled around the shelter, encompassing all those emotions.

People wore various expressions, swallowing their feelings as they gazed at the landslide.

How could humanity triumph over natural disasters?

Natural disasters were simply to be avoided.

Yet among those in the shelter, one person, perhaps dissatisfied with such human helplessness, stopped sharpening his sword and stood up abruptly.

Amidst that sudden presence, some who had merely gazed at the landslide turned their heads, and upon doing so, they spotted a massive man clad in a uniform.

A figure whose size appeared to warp perspective stood alone.

The man was covered in scales reminiscent of a fish or lizard, and even in the dim light of the shelter, he bore a dark sheen reflecting the light streaming in.

He grasped an enormous sword and stepped outside.

Thud thud.

The weighty sound of his massive footsteps echoed, and one by one, people turned their heads toward him.

Despite gathering attention, the man continued onward, and when he reached the shelter’s door, more than half of those inside were gazing at his back.

The man casually turned to look at them and spoke.

“I’ll be right back.”

Leaving only that remark, he stepped outside.

Towards the dangerous place where the immense mass was about to sweep everything away, as the landslide approached the village.

* * *

Warriors live their lives with their ideals and aspirations in their hearts.

The essence of martial arts lies in training the human body, and that training is to defeat foes and strengthen oneself.

How one faces an opponent can steer the direction of martial arts; their aspirations will be inherently varied.

Some warriors might believe they could evade all attacks with fluid movement, while others may think they could draw a sword faster than lightning, and yet others might believe they could turn the world into a sea of flames with their blade.

Their ultimate vision.

The proposition they gaze upon.

The goals they believe they can achieve in the future.

Each warrior is different, yet they all continually train and develop for that singular purpose.

And there exists something that undeniably arrives to confirm that their direction is correct.

That is what we call transformation.

An occurrence where the body born into the world shifts entirely to align with martial arts.

Transformation proclaims:

Your path is not wrong.

The direction you’re heading is correct, and for that, I shall grant you a gift.

Thus, among the gifted warriors, some undergo transformation and explode in development.

If one swings a sword swiftly, they can explosively advance their muscular strength to swing even faster.

If necessary, they could even develop organs that create shockwaves like a pistol shrimp utilizing pressure.

Their legs might change like those of animals, they could possess unimaginable life force as long as their brain and heart remain unscathed, and they might even achieve eyesight comparable to a microscope.

It’s akin to evolving over hundreds or thousands of years in an instant.

Their body fully morphing to fit martial arts, not the environment.

Thus, a molecular-level transformation takes place.

Murakami Kazuo was also a warrior who experienced such change.

As a child, he knocked on the door of Shiheng Style for the single reason that “it’s cool to slice through hard things with a sword.”

The somewhat diminutive Kazuo, in his childhood, never considered that he might not fit into Shiheng Style, his eyes sparkling only with the desire to learn impressive martial arts.

Though he didn’t appear exceptionally talented in martial arts, thankfully, Shiheng Style valued courage and the “manly demeanor” more than outward talent. Witnessing him, a child, so keen to learn martial arts, the warriors of Shiheng Style gladly took him in and devoted themselves to teaching him.

He struck straw bundles with a wooden sword.

He struck wooden logs with a wooden sword.

He struck down bound branches with a wooden sword.

Continuously.

Persistently.

Until the wooden sword wore down to become a mere stick.

Until the iron-tipped wooden sword snapped.

Until the straw bundle fell apart and turned to dust, until the bound branches shattered, and the logs were battered and broken.

He was only instructed to strike downward, tirelessly honing his stamina for that purpose.

From above downward.

Bearing his weight.

Augmenting the force of gravity.

Thus Kazuo swung his sword repeatedly, seeking that single action that appeared capable of cutting anything, endlessly cool in the eyes of a child.

Years passed—one year, ten years, several decades.

The boy who had lightly rapped on the door with his little hand had become a young man.

The young man, devoted solely to martial arts, evolved into a middle-aged man who could trace the outlines of martial capabilities.

And that middle-aged man…

Became young again.

Transformation had come.

In the process of changing bones and skin, Kazuo’s skin, which had begun to wrinkle, smoothed out.

The sunburnt skin adorned with fish-like scales crafted itself into armor, and the once diminutive frame expanded dramatically to exceed 2.5 meters tall. In proportion to his height, his size grew immensely, with muscles swelling explosively to exert tremendous power.

Thus, alongside the transformation, Kazuo transcended the realm he had known, and he felt the unarticulated realization he had cherished in his heart becoming inscribed into phrases.

What he had felt through countless sword swings.

What he had sensed while swinging a wooden sword against something solid, and when cutting through metal with a sharpened blade.

It felt like that confidence he had encountered when immersing himself in Shiheng Style.

“Huuuuuh…”

He understood.

His spirit, his martial arts, his qi, and the transformed flesh were speaking.

A sword can cut through anything.

Anything.

Even something that appears impossible.

If one wields a sword, no matter what—

It can be cut.

“Huuuuuh—aaah—!”

Kazuo drew in a deep breath, facing the landslide pouring toward the village.

And when the humid air filled his lungs to the brim…

He roared at the approaching landslide with a thunderous shout.

“Yaaaaaa—!”

He bellowed as if trying to expel all air from his body, unleashing his qi in an explosive wave as he swung the sword down from above.

Kwa-ANG—!

Thus, the landslide was cleaved in two.

 

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