Sem dinheiro para a faculdade, só me restou caçar dragões

City Youth Palace, Musashi Kendo Training Center.

At the center of the hall, two figures clad in kendo armor faced each other, each gripping a bamboo sword. Their sword tips crossed, the one on the left trembling slightly—not out of fear, but as a probing gesture, masking the imminent strike that might burst forth at any moment. This was akin to the nimble footwork found in taekwondo, sanda, and jeet kune do.

Yet the swordsman on the right remained motionless—motionless in every sense. His bamboo sword was steady, his breathing deep and even. Only his feet shifted minutely within the span of a step, adjusting for the perfect position to meet and counter any attack.

The hall was hushed. Countless eyes watched, transfixed. Kendo duels were not exchanges of blows like other martial arts; victory and defeat were settled in an instant, as sudden as the crack of spring thunder. In the old days, when wandering swordsmen ruled, what followed the thunder was not applause, but a silent shower of crimson rain.

For two whole minutes, the arena held its silence. The two swordsmen continued their subtle shifts—advancing, retreating, but neither launched the first strike.

In the third minute, the probing swordsman on the left finally could not restrain himself. A roar erupted from beneath his helmet, reverberating through the hall—yet still, he did not strike.

The swordsman on the right was undisturbed by this sudden battle cry. He did not move, not even a tremor from his bamboo sword.

Three minutes and twenty seconds in, the left side finally