I Formed the Strongest Swordsman Group-Chapter 56: Facing Eight with Two! The First Deathmatch! (II)

Aoto still had a lot of confidence in Saitō’s ability.
After all, Saitō was the bodyguard Arima had found for him. From Aoto’s understanding and trust in Arima, his superior wouldn’t send some mediocre nobody to protect him.
If Aoto wanted, he could have stayed behind Saitō the whole time, letting Saitō handle every enemy. He would only need to hide, cheer Saitō on, and wait to win without effort.
But Aoto didn’t want that.
Saitō couldn’t protect him forever.
If he wanted to keep himself safe, the best way was to become strong as quickly as possible.
And if he wanted to gain enough power to defend himself, there was no substitute for personally going through blood and fire.
Moreover—facing this sudden group of radical Expel the Barbarians faction members made Aoto’s heart beat with a faint thrill.
He was more than willing to use these radicals to test the results of the past few days’ special training and to see how the few divine techniques and talents he now had would perform in actual combat!
While Saitō leapt forward and charged at the four men blocking their retreat, Aoto almost simultaneously launched his own assault on the four enemies in front of them!
Aoto grabbed the straw hat from his head and flung it toward the enemies.
Snow had accumulated on the hat; when he hurled it, the snow scattered and sprayed outward, just enough to obscure the enemies’ vision and disrupt them.
Aoto’s small tactic worked perfectly.
The short man leading the front—no more than 1.4 meters tall—had his vision blinded by the splattered snow, screamed, and halted in his tracks.
Aoto followed right after the hat, rushing forward.
—Like wringing a wet towel…
As he charged, Aoto silently recited the little trick Okita had taught him when instructing suburi—how to maximize the power of a swing without injuring the wrist—while he quickly raised the dukedom sword above his head.
Squelch!
A muffled crack like a watermelon being smashed erupted.
Relying on the muscle memory built from countless repetitions these past days, Aoto drove the blade heavily into the short man’s forehead.
The edge sliced through from the crown, chopping down to the nasal root before finally stopping.
The katana in Aoto’s hand and the wakizashi still at his waist were truly the fine blades his great-grandfather had paid a hundred ryō of gold to forge.
The hard skull was nothing more than fragile wood before this edge; after blowing the head apart, the blade didn’t even suffer a nick.
Quickly sheathing the sword, Aoto glanced rapidly behind him to check on Saitō—those four radical Expel the Barbarians faction members blocking their escape had already been smashed apart by Saitō.
Seeing his rear secure and able to safely devote his entire focus to the enemies ahead, Aoto immediately returned his gaze to the three remaining foes.
His heartbeat sped up.
Adrenaline surged.
Lone Courage activated!
Although Aoto had only practiced swordplay for a few days since crossing over, the Sword Prodigy talent had made these days of training equivalent to months—even half a year—of practice for an ordinary person!
Aoto was no longer a sword novice; he already had past-life fighting experience and police training as a foundation.
On top of that, strong talents like Lone Courage, Hawk Eye, and Left-Handed supported him… the Aoto standing here now was a world apart from the frightened version on his first night here, when he’d been helpless against three radicals.
A dark-skinned burly man thrust his sword at Aoto; his attack at first glance seemed full of force, speed, and momentum, but Hawk Eye allowed Aoto to fully read the attack’s path.
Aoto pivoted on his left foot, turning his body counterclockwise; his crimson haori and cloak traced a perfect semicircle as he spun.
After evading the burly man’s strike by turning, Aoto used the centrifugal force to swing his blade horizontally, slicing across the man’s throat.
A geyser of blood burst from the severed artery, spraying toward Aoto’s face.
Seeing the blood about to douse his head, Aoto’s quick left hand—now as dexterous as his right—seized a corner of his cloak and pulled it forward to block the steaming gush.
The black cloak masked the blood stains well.
He flicked the cloak aside with his left palm, then set his blade before him again, point aimed at the next enemy, blade held level.
He assumed the stance for Mumyōzuki, the Tennen Rishin-ryu technique he had just learned from Kondō yesterday.
When Kondō taught Aoto Mumyōzuki, he had emphasized: the essence of Mumyōzuki is to hold the blade flat.
Because the blade’s width is wider than the ribs’ gaps, thrusting with the blade upright easily scrapes bone; only by keeping the blade flat can you insert it smoothly into the deepest gap between the ribs.
Slash!
Aoto stomped down, snow scattering from his heel. Driving force from his back foot went through his waist into his arms, and he poured all that power along the blade into the enemy’s chest!
The sharp tip pierced flesh and slipped through the gap between ribs, emerging from the man’s back.
Droplets of blood flicked off the blade as inertia carried them from the body to the snow, making plum-blossom patterns bloom prematurely across the wide white field.
Among the four radicals who had blocked Aoto and Saitō’s path, only one still lived.
That lone survivor was completely stunned.
This isn’t what we were told…?!
They had heard beforehand that Tachibana Aoto—the traitor—was mediocre, lousy at swordsmanship, an easy soft target to dispose of!
They had gathered eight of them this time; just shouting “Divine Punishment” and charging in should’ve been enough for a quick victory!
So what’s this?
This is mediocre?
This man gaped, eyes wide, staring at his comrades fallen in extravagant, brutal ways…
Only after Aoto had already withdrawn his blade from the man pierced through the chest did the survivor finally regain his wits.
Aoto swept his blade toward the last “survivor” as he retracted it.
Snapping back to reality, the man hurriedly raised his sword to defend.
Too late.
The razor edge swept across his throat.
Another plum blossom bloomed on the snow.
*******
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This is the first time since the previous series Swordmaster ended that the author wrote a fight with such lightning-fast pacing—victory decided in seconds.
Fortunately—the hand isn’t rusty yet.
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