The morning began, as most of them did now, with Tsurugi attempting to achieve a state of pure nothingness and failing spectacularly.

He sat in what had once been a perfectly pleasant, quiet clearing in the woods. 'Had been' being the operative phrase. Somehow, during a period of particularly intense napping, an entire dojo had been constructed around him. Then dormitories. Then a perimeter wall. Then, through a process of osmosis he still didn't understand, an entire bustling compound.

"Master!" A disciple whose name he'd intentionally forgotten threw himself to the ground, his forehead pressing into the dirt. "Your lesson yesterday! It has changed my life!"

Tsurugi dragged his gaze away from a beetle attempting to roll a pellet of dung uphill. "I didn't give a lesson yesterday."

"Precisely!" the young man exclaimed, his eyes shining with the light of true fanaticism. "The lesson of absence! By teaching us nothing, you taught us to find the wisdom within ourselves! I spent the entire night in contemplation, and I realized that the sword is not a weapon, but a mirror to the soul!"

"It's a piece of steel," Tsurugi said flatly. "For cutting things."

"Yes! For cutting away the illusions of the self! Oh, Master, your humility is as boundless as your wisdom!"

"I was drunk," Tsurugi clarified.

"Intoxicated on existential clarity!" the disciple corrected, his voice trembling with emotion. "You showed us that true enlightenment is not found in sober ritual, but in the abandonment of worldly constraints!"

Tsurugi stared at the disciple. The disciple stared back, his face a mask of blissful misinterpretation. It was like looking at a funhouse mirror version of himself, if he were ever that optimistic.

"What's your name?" Tsurugi asked suddenly.

"Kenji, Master!"

"Kenji. Tell me, Kenji, if a beetle is trying to roll a dung pellet up a hill, and it keeps rolling back down, is the beetle a failure, or is the hill the problem?"

Kenji's eyes widened. "The... the hill, Master?"

"Or perhaps," Tsurugi continued, "the beetle simply enjoys the struggle. The meaning isn't in the success, but in the attempt. Now go away and think about that."

"Yes, Master! The lesson of the beetle! I understand!" Kenji scrambled backward, still bowing, and ran off to undoubtedly find profound meaning in a rock or something.

Taro approached, carrying a tray with a steaming cup of tea. The terrified boy from the tournament was gone, replaced by a terrified man with surprisingly competent administrative skills. His hair, once black, was now shot through with grey at the temples. He was only twenty. Tsurugi felt a flicker of something akin to responsibility, which he immediately suppressed.

"Was that really necessary, my lord?" Taro asked, placing the cup down.

"It bought me five minutes of peace," Tsurugi replied. "How many are we up to now?"

"Forty-seven, my lord," Taro said, his eyes already scanning the compound for new disasters. "We had three new arrivals last night. A merchant and his two sons. They heard you could 'silence the inner turmoil of the soul with a single glance.'"

"I can't even silence the outer turmoil of a mosquito," Tsurugi muttered. "I've tried everything, Taro. I've insulted their technique, ignored their questions, and set the dojo on fire twice."

"Yes, my lord," Taro said, his voice a masterclass in patient suffering. "They interpreted the insults as 'honest guidance,' the silence as 'contemplative wisdom,' and the fire as a 'test of their resolve.' They rebuilt it better the second time. Added a meditation garden."

Tsurugi's gaze drifted to said garden. It was, he had to admit, quite nice. Raked sand, carefully placed stones, a sense of tranquility he had absolutely no desire for but couldn't help but appreciate. It had just appeared, like everything else in his life.

"Taro," he said, setting his cup down. "Walk me through it again. Slowly. I feel like I'm missing a crucial, stupid detail."

"Very well, my lord," Taro sighed, pulling a small, leather-bound ledger from his sleeve. "It started with those bandits. The ones who were making so much noise near the village."

"Their existence was an annoying," Tsurugi confirmed.

"Indeed. You dealt with them. The villagers were grateful."

"I didn't do it for them. They were blocking the sun."

"They didn't know that, my lord. They told stories. Word spread. People started arriving, seeking the wisdom of the 'Red-Eyed Sage of the Forest'."

"I don't have any wisdom. I have a sword and a profound desire for a nap."

"They interpret that differently, my lord."

A bell chimed, a clear, melodic sound that Tsurugi definitely did not remember approving.

"What now?" he groaned.

"The rice tax collector, my lord. From Lord Matsuda's territory. He's waiting by the gate, demanding an audience."

"We don't grow rice."

"We do now, my lord. In the north field. The students planted it. They said it was 'an act of mindful cultivation.'"

Tsurugi stood with the profound weariness of a man who had accidentally acquired agricultural responsibilities. The tax collector was a pinch-faced man with a meticulously waxed mustache, the kind of facial hair that screamed "unearned authority."

"You are the master of this... establishment?" the collector asked, his voice dripping with the condescending syrup of a minor bureaucrat.

"No."

"No?" The mustache twitched.

"I sit here. Things happen around me. It's very annoying."

The collector's face went through an impressive spectrum of colors. "Lord Matsuda demands his rightful portion of your rice yield. One-third, as is customary."

"I don't have rice. The students have rice. Go talk to them."

"Your fields—"

"Not mine."

"This compound—"

"Appeared without my permission. Like a fungus."

"You—" The collector sputtered, his brain apparently short-circuiting. "Lord Matsuda demands tribute, or he will send soldiers to take it by force!"

"Soldiers," Tsurugi observed, already feeling a headache coming on. "All that metal clanking. It's so aesthetically unpleasant. And they track mud everywhere."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's just my observation. Now, if you'll excuse me, this beetle is about to achieve its life's goal, and I don't want to miss it."

The collector left in a huff, his mustache quivering with righteous indignation. Taro let out a long, slow sigh.

"My lord," he said quietly. "You may have just provoked a powerful regional lord."

"I stated facts about his aesthetic choices," Tsurugi corrected. "If he can't handle constructive criticism, that's his problem."

"He won't see it that way, my lord."

"Not my problem."

"It will be when his soldiers arrive, my lord."

Tsurugi went back to watching his beetle. It had finally gotten its dung pellet to the top of the hill. A small victory in a world of annoying idiots. Good for the beetle.

---

Three days later, the soldiers arrived. Two hundred of them, which seemed like a massive overreaction for a tax dispute.

Tsurugi was attempting to nap under a cherry tree when they marched into the compound. The students, bless their deluded hearts, had formed a defensive line. It was adorable, like a flock of sheep trying to intimidate a pack of wolves.

Lord Matsuda himself had come, a man whose importance was directly proportional to the shrillness of his voice.

"You dare defy the lawful authority of the realm?" Matsuda bellowed, his face turning a shade of purple that clashed with his armor.

Tsurugi opened one eye. "Must you shout?"

"I will have your head for your insolence!" Matsuda drew his sword with a dramatic flourish. "And I will feed your body to the crows!"

"You woke me from a very nice dream," Tsurugi said, standing up and stretching. "There were no people in it. It was perfect." He drew his sword, the movement slow and lazy. "Now you've ruined it."

Matsuda roared and charged, his personal guard surging forward with him. The students raised their weapons, their faces a mask of terrified determination.

Tsurugi yawned. Then he moved.

He didn't charge. He simply took a step forward, pivoting on his heel. The first three soldiers didn't even see him move. One moment they were running, the next their heads were simply… not on their shoulders anymore. Blood fountained in crimson arcs, painting the front row of students. The bodies stood for a second, then collapsed in a heap of twitching limbs.

Tsurugi flowed through the next rank. His blade was a whisper of death, a silver line that sliced through throats, bellies, and wrists. A man tried to block a high cut; Tsurugi's blade simply sheared through his sword, his hands, and his skull in a single, effortless stroke. He kicked a severed head out of his path, his expression one of mild annoyance, as if he were navigating a crowded street.

He reached Lord Matsuda, who was still trying to process the fact that his elite guard was now a collection of bleeding corpses on the ground.

"You… you're a monster," Matsuda stammered, his eyes wide with terror.

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