All it gave him was a time and place. There was no name attached to it, and had he been like most men, there would've been no indication of intent behind the strange letter. But he wasn't like most men, not by any means, and there was intent within the letter, just none a layman could ever discern.
It was laden with chakra, and there was no beating around any metaphorical bush on its single-minded intent. It promised death should he show up, and with the neat, finely-written characters to accompany this malicious intent, and only those, there was no doubt within the swordsman's mind that the letter was nothing more or less than a face-value challenge, a duel between warriors for the right to live.
Most men would be foolish or insane to arrive in front of such an obvious, bloodthirsty enemy, especially one who held such tempered madness as the composer of the letter had, who'd shown the swordsman some of the finest calligraphy he'd ever seen. But the man reading the letter was not most men. He was an accomplished warrior both in status and effect, and he would never turn down any opponent who openly challenged him to the death no matter how malicious or strong he may be. His honor simply wouldn't allow it.
And it was thus that the swordsman found himself at the duelist's destination, his named blade upon his left hip and with ready intent to deal and receive death at a moment's notice wafting throughout his emotionless yet eager thoughts. Rarely could he remember a time where he'd been confronted by such a warrior, and while it had been a frightening thing in his earliest days, the swordsman had picked up a certain love for battles with such men; men like he, himself, had become throughout his life.
The wind blew his long hair about as he stepped out of the woods he'd been trekking through and onto a grass-filled plain, a bright meadow surrounded on all sides so as to provide cover for the slaughter-to-come.
Directly within the middle of the meadow sat the man who he was to kill or meet his end by. He seemed to be meditating, and with his back turned towards the swordsman, it appeared that his opponent was a complete fool with no concept of a guard, yet, the swordsman clearly felt, nothing could've been further from the truth. Even sitting as he was, and even with his eyes turned in the opposite direction, the swordsman could feel the very air around him crackling and vibrating, the gentle wind carrying upon it a malice that made his blood boil in a way very few could ever truly come to understand.
The man, the duelist sitting across from him, might've seemed unaware to most men, but the swordsman was not most men. Not only was the man aware of his presence, but he was eagerly awaiting what came next, even tempting the swordsman with his awful intent to draw his naked sword to cut him down before he was allowed to move from his meditative state.
But he did not touch his hilt nor did he make any move to deal with the overwhelming threat before it was time. Instead, he paced his way up to him, afraid yet excited, calm but turbulent, and he stopped, awaiting the man's next move. Slowly, he stood, his attire that of baggy, black pants and a loose, gray, sleeveless animal skin for a top, his height a full head above the swordsman's own, and then he turned.
His hair was short, and it was as black as night and slicked back, most likely with something unnatural to keep it in place for the deadly occasion, and upon his face was an equally black beard and many small scars that gave him a rather grizzled appearance. His nose, while straight, had several small tear-marks surrounding it, indicating it had been broken and reset a number of times, and above that strangely straight nose of his was perhaps the most frightening dark brown orbs the swordsman had ever observed. They, like his own, were eager, excited for the carnage, the thrill of battling a blooded-warrior, but unlike his own, there was no fear or hint of death within them. There was no malice within his terrible gaze, yet his spirit exuded such an aura regardless of what the swordsman could visibly observe.
The bearded man took a slow step forward, placing scarred hands into his black pockets, and the swordsman nearly took one in retreat, and had he been like most men, he likely would've, too. But he wasn't most men nor was he like them. Instead, he took one forward, his honor demanding such, and then another that the man across from him mimicked. Two more, he paced, and so too did the duelist. With one more, he would be in range, but his opponent would not.
The swordsman was no fool. While the man appeared unarmed, that didn't mean he truly was, and he likely had some technique that used chakra that could make his sword's long length utterly obsolete. He had mastered a technique of his own for such an occasion, one that he could proudly say he'd used on many a foolhardy ninja who thought his range was less than theirs. He didn't know if the man before him was one such fool, but he wasn't eager to lose his advantage.
With one last step forward, one that was much longer than any before, his hand was upon his hilt, drawing his named blade faster than any human eye could follow, intent on cutting the duelist in two with a single breath. What he hadn't counted on, no matter how much he'd envisioned the fight from the night before, was what the man did in response.
Instead of retreating or simply dying, instead of flashing through a fancy hand sign for some unknown technique, his right foot flew forward in the widest, longest, deepest lunge the swordsman had ever witnessed, stamping his bare foot a hair's breadth next to the swordsman's sandaled own. Before his named sword had fully left its sheath, the man rotated and twisted at the waist, gyrating his left forearm so as to thrust it forward with speed the swordsman couldn't fathom.
Their individual techniques missed one another, instead slamming into their opponent without hesitation, his sword's pommel smashing into the false ribs of the man's right side, which caused his named blade to slip upon his waist and twist at his wrist and elbow further than he would've imagined each joint going for his mastered draw technique, and ensuring he hit nothing, whilst the man's lightning fast left met his own abdomen, collapsing the swordsman's body in two and driving the wind from his lungs in an explosive, loud huff as his rump met soft grass.
He knew it the moment he'd lost, and he hacked and coughed, wheezed and gasped for air that didn't seem to want anything to do with him. Rolling onto his side, and then onto the other, the swordsman gripped at his belly as liquid fire traveled through his innards, and he prayed the victorious man before and above him would end it soon. But, despite holding this wonned right over the swordsman, he didn't.
Not even after the swordsman regained his breathing and not even after his composure soon followed did the man make his final move, and with a glare up at him, the swordsman knew what had to be said.
"End it!" he begged more than demanded through gritted teeth, wishing for his honor to be returned and his pain to be over.
But the man still didn't make his move, so the swordsman spoke again.
"Why?!" he hissed, the feeling of speaking once more causing a great fire to burn within his aching lungs.
"You're still holding it," the man simply said, his eyes trailing away from the swordsman's own, and allowing his own gaze to wander, he immediately understood.
"My…sword?" he asked, coughing up dry saliva that tasted of iron, yet there was no redness to be found within its clear contents.
"You're still holding it," he repeated, his voice like quiet thunder. "Even in the state you're in, and even after the blow I dealt to you, you haven't given up on being a swordsman."
And suddenly, as though the sun had risen for a second time in one day, the swordsman understood why he still lived. Had he let go of his blade, something he would never do while it was drawn, the man would've killed him, and he knew, with utter certainty, as to why. There was still potential to be found, even in his darkest hour. There was still a drive to be a swordsman who was unmatched by any other man, and the one before him, a man so seemingly similar in age to himself, saw that potential, and he saw a future where the two met once more.
"This…isn't over," the swordsman declared, hacking up more dry saliva, but never allowing his eyes to drift away from his rival's until the man himself turned to leave, and only then did the swordsman realize something very important.
His blade, which he'd previously thought hit nothing, had, in fact, hit something. When his sword's pommel had connected with the man's waist, and when it had been forcefully twisted at his wrist and elbow joints, and precisely because he hadn't let it go, his named sword had swung around and clipped the man straight across his lower back, leaving a large trail of blood that seeped from his gray top down into his baggy, black pants.
"No, it isn't," the man gruffly returned, never once looking back as he exited the meadow with a wound of his own.