He recognizes it when they clash—her wooden blade, unlike the thirsting steel of the countless opponents before her, does not call for blood. The sakabato in his grip becomes dull as he blocks her forceful strikes. She holds her own, yet retreats a step to measure him fully, for he knows she senses it. Though her conviction is strong, her weapon relents.
"What is this?" she demands. "Are you not the infamous manslayer, battousi? Do you deny tarnishing my good name?"
"This unworthy one is but a mere rurouni," he replies between ragged breaths and eases his stance. After a moment, she mimics him and finally lowers her bokken. With a free hand, she pushes back the dark bangs matted to her forehead. "The passion with which you defend your name is admirable," he tells her. "This one's blade acknowledges your honorable swordsmanship, for both are designed to protect precious lives."
"Huh?" she blinks. Suddenly, the tip of her weapon is in his face. His eyes cross to zero in on the threatening point.
"Oro?"
Her knuckles go white, bloodless in her firm hold. "So you do recognize my sword style! You must be the one disgracing it with senseless murder! Your sword is not of any innocent design."
His blade sings through the night air when it strikes hers. Before she can move to counter his abrupt blow, his eyes lock on hers and he wills her to hold back. His eyes have a peculiar glint in the golden moonlight. "It is unmistakable!" he insists. "This one knows you feel it."
"What are you talking—"
"Look at my blade," he prompts. "It is incapable of killing. Only its wielder will ever feel its cutting edge."
"How strange," she muses lowly, as if speaking to herself, and withdraws her offense. He holds the odd weapon out for her to examine further. "You're right, it's not fashioned in any traditional sense. I've never seen one like it."
"You have similar reasons to fight," he states, sheathing his weapon. "When our blades connected, they were in harmony despite your onslaught. There is an understanding between them—they do not kill, but rather protect those who cannot protect themselves."
"You have beheld Kamiya Kasshin-Ryūat the hand of its Master. Tell me, rurouni, what swordstyle do I have the honor of beholding?"
"This one hopes you do not ever have to set your eyes on its swift and unforgiving nature, Master Kamiya."
She bows with chills running down her spine. "Nevertheless, it's an honor to have such a respectable opponent," she says as she straightens to face him. The humble man's clothes are in tatters with holes at the hem of his ragged hakama. The straps of his footwear have been rebound many times. His plain kimono is faded, parted to reveal the dirt streaked with sweat on his chest. Odd in its ruddy tone, his hair has slipped from its secure ponytail, matted to his flushed cheeks.
"Oro?" he murmurs and cocks his head to the side.
She blushes in a shade that rivals his own embarrassment. "Oh!" She's been staring. How rude. "I was just thinking… Do you—do you need a place to stay? For the night, I mean?"
Now he begins to stare. "This one cannot—" he splutters.
"You can wash up while I prepare dinner!" she exclaims and cuts off his protests. "It's the least I can do for wrongfully accusing you of something you so strongly resent. I still have some of my father's old garments, too. You can change into them if you'd like!"
It is difficult to deny her insistence. He meekly agrees, if only to accompany her home, what with a rampant murderer running around. It's a sound decision, he reassures himself, for the woman whose blade sings.