“I’m not sure I get all that sixteenth century stuff—but if I had to say, I guess it’s like cutting the opponent’s sword’s vectors and angles ’n’ stuff? Two parallel lines diverging? Maybe?”
When attacked, the sword wielder’s instinctive reaction was to move back—however, the defender must step forward into the strike with a simultaneous strike of their own. This technique became known as ichi no tachi, the mysterious move later memorialized in the seventeenth century military record Koyo Gunkan with the cryptic message, “One fortune, one sword strike, one sword—and so is the primacy of a sword and its master so determined.”
“But that’s not a kata, per se. Isn’t it more like a guiding principle? The nerds insist this is a technique, but I don’t trust ’em as far as I can throw ’em. The nerds get all their knowledge from pop culture!”
Yet pop culture juju contained kernels of truth. If I could wed those kernels to solid fact via my Skills’ OP synergistic properties, then I was in business. The only thing that was stopping me was my body—and I could always push myself past my physical limitations.
“Right-o, so all I gotta do is dodge within a centimeter of my opponent’s blade, getting me close enough to where I’m guaranteed to cut the fool in half, and then unleash all my strength in a single strike—aka use my luck, my terrain advantages, and all the skill I’ve cultivated in a single move to slay my foe? Hell, if I could do that, I could say goodbye to Skills forever. I could give up being an isekai protagonist and wreak havoc back on Earth! They should’ve isekai’d Bokuden, not a random high schooler.”
Anyone who could pull off this trick was a monster! Bokuden had lived to eighty-three and pumped out legends like he’d been a legend assembly line—small wonder he was called a sword saint. Bokuden had been born to be an isekai character. He could’ve sliced the demon king, queen, and knave to bits in seconds. Ichi no tachi never failed! It never missed! It never screwed its user over…except when I tried it.
Copying this move was, uh, kind of a tall order. But surely if I worked hard enough and put my sword skills to the test, I could do it! Make that cane skills?
“Hmm… Hiiyah? Like this? Or that? Nah, that’s not it…”
I pictured it like this: Slip into range in the pause between breaths; strike the opponent in the pause between the opponent’s sword swings. So, I kinda needed an opponent to practice on, and preferably one that wouldn’t kill me in a single hit. (Cough, Miss Armor Rep, cough.) Even Bokuden was no match for her!
That left me fighting Fish Girl—the most classic sword fighter among the girls, owner of the Sword King title, scion of an ancient fishy line. Once more unto the breach, Fish Girl!
“Oh, for the love of—what ancient fishy line? Fukunuki-chan! Stop agreeing with him!”
I was impossibly close. I dodged her blade, coming within a hair’s breadth of my untimely end on a steely skewer, and turned the blow. I measured the length of a Fish Girl breath to judge the best time to move into position—problem was, fish perform branchial respiration.
I could bring my cane up to match Fish Girl’s, but all the rest of my technique had gone out the window in my breaking and reforming. I had no time to start over from scratch, so in the meantime, I had to master the five weaponless moves of wuxingquan and the single sword move of ichi no tachi. Both were the zeniths of their respective art forms, and with little control over my body, the best I could do was instill this pure essence of the combat arts into my muscle memory. I had no time to learn complex techniques the hard way! Believe me—I’d done it once already, and it sucked! And even if it had been a walk in the park (which it hadn’t been!), I had no time. I had to get back to the frontier, clear dungeons, and prevent the situation from growing any more dire. I had to develop my dungeon fighting ability, stat! Why? Because I was out of money! So, ichi no tachi would have to do.
I sidled so close to Fish Girl’s sword it nearly grazed me, let her sword almost—almost!—cleave me, and stepped into range. My position, my angle, and my direction all locked and crossed with hers, and now all that was left was a breath—hff, there it was—and then balance! And then thrust!
“Hff!”
A single reverse strike, a single breath, a single clean cut.
“Damn it! Not quite.”
“Hello?! What the heck was that? That was too scary, too close, too fast, too—too!”
Too clumsy, that’s what! She could still parry it. Our blades kissed and parted; the lines of our weapons converged as our swords sang; she knocked aside my blows with strikes of her own.
I guess that’s what I got for fighting Fish Girl (even if I didn’t want to get turned into a Haruka shish kabob on the end of Miss Armor Rep’s sword). Fish Girl was a tough customer.
There was nothing I could do unless I left myself open. This technique only worked at very, very close ranges—a half-step away from the enemy at most.
“But even Shioda Gozo, aikido master, once said ‘Never go up against a fish when death is on the line!’ Maybe I shouldn’t go up against her. Maybe that’s my problem. I might need to find the right moment to get out of the way.”
But then again, if I got out of the way, I’d be out of range.