Chapter 10: The Strongest Master

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Just as Sakiko Togawa returned home, her eyes immediately caught sight of an unusual object parked in front of the iron gates of the mansion. It was a wooden food cart, the gentle drizzle falling on its small roof, with the opened windows serving as a makeshift canopy. Hanging beside it was a cloth curtain emblazoned with the large character for "noodles."

Sakiko knew what it was—a yatai cart originating from Fukuoka.

These small carts were specially designed for roaming the streets selling snacks, accommodating only a few customers at a time. The greatest advantage was that they spared the costly rent of a storefront. With a long bench placed in front, customers sitting there would have their upper bodies shielded, creating a private space even on chilly, windy streets at night.

Moreover, the distance between the vendor and the patrons was just an arm's length, allowing the owner to cook while chatting with customers, making every yatai owner a skilled conversationalist.

But she had never patronized one.

The Togawa family’s heiress followed a strict dietary regimen. From a young age, the household chef and nutritionist controlled her meals, forbidding her from eating outside foods even when out, to avoid miscalculating calories.

She had only ever seen such carts from afar, glimpsed from the windows of a Maybach, imagining the types of people who sat inside and the vibrant life of the street cuisine.

How could something like this appear in her own estate?

It wasn’t that she looked down on others, but the Togawa estate was vast—large enough for horse riding—and all luxury cars visiting were concealed in underground garages. No one had ever parked so brazenly before the main gate.

Judging by the cart’s appearance, it seemed to have been converted from a box truck, costing no more than 2.5 million yen including modifications—less than the price of that iron gate...

But the gate was broken. It was still closed, fulfilling its purpose well, except that several vertical steel bars in the middle were missing, lying broken on the ground, creating just enough space for a person to slip through.

All this left Sakiko somewhat dazed.

The estate’s security system was not activated; everything was quiet. Only this lone yatai cart stood there, thoughtfully secured to the fence with a theft-prevention lock.

After enduring a night of torrential rain, Sakiko had grown wary of any unusual happenings. She pressed her hand on the pistol inside her shoulder bag and carefully slipped through the gap in the gate.

Though she was returning home, she felt like a thief.

Pushing open the main door, the hall was deserted. The polished floor reflected the blue tips of her hair, but no one welcomed or greeted her. It seemed everyone was away. Each step she took echoed lightly through the eerie silence, sending chills down her spine.

“Oh, thank goodness, finally a living person!”

Just as Sakiko began ascending the spiral staircase, a head peeked out from upstairs. Upon seeing her, the elderly man’s face lit up with joy.

He was an old man, no longer young, his white hair neatly parted, clad in a traditional white hemp work uniform typical of ramen chefs, with a black towel tied around his forehead—looking as if he had spent his entire life dealing with noodles.

Such an old man would normally evoke goodwill, yet Sakiko tightened her grip on the pistol, the black barrel aimed squarely at his head.

Though only a glance, she clearly saw a figure lying by the man’s feet—a security guard dressed in a black vest, responsible for monitoring the estate’s cameras.

So this was a ramen chef running a yatai cart who had barged into the Togawa estate through the main gate to rob them? What a sight to behold! The assassin hadn’t come knocking yet, but a thief was already daring enough to brazenly invade in broad daylight! The Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department should collectively commit seppuku for their failure!

“Hey, do all young girls these days carry guns as accessories?” The old man immediately raised both hands in surrender, facing the deadly barrel. “Looks like I’m really old-fashioned, didn’t realize this was the trend now.”

His face was full of smiles, devoid of fear, more like the helplessness one shows when a child threatens to kill them in jest.

“Who are you?” Sakiko fixed her gaze on him and slowly climbed the spiral stairs to the second floor.

The safety on her PPK was off at once. Though she had only handled firearms for a day, for a half-blood like her, it was no different from a toy. At this distance, she was absolutely confident she could hit his forehead.

“I’m just a ramen chef,” the old man said earnestly, pointing to the white cloth tied on his forehead. “Don’t I look the part?”

“What kind of ramen chef knocks people unconscious?” Sakiko nodded toward the security guard at his feet. “Don’t think I won’t shoot. Ten seconds. Tell me the truth.”

“But I am telling the truth.”

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The old man shrugged, looking aggrieved.

“The Togawa boy called me over, but when I arrived, he wasn’t there. I kept explaining to the security guards on the walkie-talkie that I wasn’t selling ramen, that I only brought the cart because I had to open my stand tonight. They didn’t believe me. When I asked to speak to your master, they refused. So I had no choice but to come in myself.”

“You came in by yourself?” That made Sakiko think of the iron gate—could this ramen chef really snap steel bars with his bare hands?

“Well, I needed a chair to sit on. It was raining outside, and an old bone like me doesn’t do well getting soaked. Unfortunately, they didn’t seem too welcoming; that young man came at me with a baton, so I had to defend myself.”

A flawless explanation, even sounding quite reasonable—if he hadn’t done those questionable things.

Sakiko thought maybe he was either crazy or another half-blood.

Or perhaps both.

“Are you Mizuho?” The old man studied her for a moment before cautiously asking, “Mizuho Togawa?”

“Mizuho is my mother.”

“Oh... right, right! It’s been a while.” The old man suddenly recalled, patting his forehead. “Getting old makes the memory fuzzy. That boy, Teiji, did say Mizuho had a daughter.”

He actually called her grandfather “that boy”? Sakiko was stunned.

Who was Teiji Togawa? The current head of the Togawa Group. Even the Governor of Tokyo had to make appointments in advance to dine with him. Few in Japan could claim to rival the Togawa family. Just being able to call the old Furukawa Garden their home was a testament—it was practically a national treasure.

Yet to this old man, such a grandfather was merely “that boy,” even though they looked about the same age.

“So you’re Mizuho’s daughter? Teiji’s granddaughter?” The old man finally pieced it together, his gaze brightening with warmth. “What’s your name?”

“Sakiko, Sakiko Togawa.”

This guy seemed just a bit slow in the head but clearly familiar with the previous generation of the Togawa family. Sakiko gave her name but didn’t lower her gun.

“Old-fashioned, huh? Using ‘-ko’ in a name these days is so outdated. If she were my daughter, I’d call her something like Eri.” The old man’s eyes gleamed with a mischievous sparkle. “But I like your name!”

Sakiko took a deep breath; if she didn’t, she might just pull the trigger.

“You seem to know my grandfather well.”

Anger made her abandon all politeness. Courtesy was for the courteous. One doesn’t speak politely to a barking dog; it only bites you and sends you for shots.

“Indeed, I’m his godfather,” the old man said frankly, scratching his head. “Honestly, I regret being his godfather... Because once you become someone’s godfather, you have to settle matters for them, take care of your godson—it’s troublesome. But you can’t just say, ‘I don’t want to be a godfather halfway through.’ That’s not how it works.”

There were rules about godfathers in the ramen chef business? Sakiko felt she had opened a door to a new world.

“So you see, I’m not some suspicious character. Now put away your little pistol. Having a gun pointed at you feels awful. You’re cute, so I won’t get mad. But you can’t keep pointing it.”

Before Sakiko could reply, the old man reached out and grabbed the barrel.

She barely had time to react. Though there was some distance between them, he seemed to suddenly appear right beside her. When she regained her senses, the gun was already in his hands.

“PPK?” He glanced at it and named the model. He removed the magazine with one hand, ejected a bullet, and toyed with it. “James Bond’s favorite gun—I like it too. But for you, it’s not that practical; the caliber’s too small.”

He reloaded, chambered a round, and handed the gun back. That simple act was enough to dispel any suspicion that he was a robber.

“What do you mean?” Sakiko didn’t understand.

“Have you ever held a sword?” the old man suddenly asked out of nowhere.

“Not yet. I’m about to start kendo.”

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“Swords are deadly weapons, and swordsmanship is a way to kill. The kendo clubs at school are just for show. Real swords and sword techniques, no matter how beautifully described, are fundamentally about violence.”

The usually irreverent old man suddenly grew serious, like a worldly wise mentor addressing a young girl seeking enlightenment.

“People nowadays romanticize samurai, talking about bushido spirit—that’s nonsense. Samurai lives were soaked in blood; they were never noble or virtuous, just poor people born into hardship.”

He continued, “Samurai serving noble families were always ready to sacrifice their lives for their lords. Those running dojos made a living teaching students, always aware that one day a new samurai would challenge and kill them. Ronin walked the streets with wolfish eyes, killing at the slightest provocation.”

He opened his palm, extending it from the fence, then slowly closed it as if invisible cherry blossoms were falling into his hand, his voice ancient and weary.

“That was the age of killers. Everyone’s life was as fragile as cherry blossoms—even the samurai themselves.”

“So from their hands came swordsmanship—these arts are not honorable pastimes. They are for slaughter. Only by killing your opponent could you survive. To live, you had to be like wolves, mice, or demons. That’s the true origin of kendo.”

He turned to look into Sakiko’s eyes. “Once you hold these things, it’s for life. You’re still so young. What reason do you have to touch them?”

A girl’s eyes should be as clear as water, yet hers were lonely and silent before him.

She was a promising student—whether in swordsmanship or kendo, he could teach her the purest traditional school, with every move traceable, and learning it would make her a top sword saint.

But first, he wanted to hear an answer. Being a natural martial prodigy didn’t necessarily mean one should learn the arts—just as those revered as war gods may not love war. Their greatest wish is to wield their strength peacefully, swinging hoes in the fields. Taking up sword or blade was an unfortunate necessity.

“I... want to bring happiness to some people,” Sakiko lowered her head, eyes on her toes.

“So you already have something you must kill?” The old man frowned slightly. She was smart enough to understand his meaning but stubbornly chose this path.

“Yes.”

“In that case, I have no reservations. A man can never truly understand a girl’s heart. I will simply give you what you need.”

The old man smiled kindly, like a grandpa who secretly slips pocket money into her skirt.

“Teiji said he wanted me to teach his granddaughter kendo. From now on, I’m your teacher. But I’ve never taught anyone before. I only agreed because of some complicated ties with your grandfather.”

“Ah...” Sakiko’s eyes widened in surprise as she realized the enormity of her mistake—just moments ago, she had pointed a gun at her teacher’s head.

She was about to apologize when the old man grabbed her arm and helped her stand straight.

“Don’t worry about trivial things. I hate formalities. If you want to apologize, just smile at me. I love seeing young, beautiful girls smile.”

Sakiko paused for a few seconds, then covered her mouth and smiled softly. In that smile, sunlight seemed to dance on the steps, dust swirling.

Since that night, she had never smiled again. Carrying heavy burdens overnight changes a person, nearly erasing the memory of joy.

But with this teacher’s arrival, his irreverence freed the feelings she had long suppressed. She had expected a grim, thin old man exuding a gloomy aura, but instead found someone so interesting.

“This is the meaning of being alive!” The old man looked up with reverence, taking a deep breath. Her smile sweetened the air. Only with young girls could he avoid feeling like a zombie nearing the grave.

“How should I address you? Sensei?” Sakiko lifted her skirt, performing an elegant curtsy, the skirt opening like a blooming rose.

“My specialty isn’t kendo—it’s ramen. Regular customers always call me Master Etsu when they lift the curtain. You can call me Master Etsu too. As for my surname...” He thought for a moment. “I’m also Togawa—Togawa Etsu.”