The young ronin stood frozen, staring at the polished wood inches from his neck. Had it been steel, his head would have rolled into the brush.
Daisuke was fast, but Juro was like the mountain wind. With a subtle pivot of his hips, the old master stepped inside Daisuke’s guard. Instead of striking to kill, Juro used the flat, heavy wood of the Kidachi to effortlessly deflect the steel blade downward.
"If you die by a wooden toy, do not blame me!" Daisuke shouted, lunging forward with a devastating overhead strike.
One autumn evening, a young and arrogant ronin named Daisuke arrived at Juro’s mountain hut. Daisuke carried a magnificent, gleaming katana at his hip and bore a reputation for ruthless dueling.
From that day on, the mountainside echoed not with the clash of steel, but with the hollow, rhythmic thuds of two wooden swords meeting in perfect harmony.