Chapter 2: At the Oni Village — Tradition —

At the foot of a 599-meter mountain—
on that stretch of plain lies a village where oni live.

In this land, many train their bodies, devote themselves to martial arts, and drink heavily.
Even in the great dojo built along the mountain’s foothills, drinking bouts had begun long before the sun started to sink.
They drank and made a ruckus, broke into brawls, and drank again. Such mad revelry was their everyday life.

Among them all, there was a young oni who could outdrink anyone, bearing the title of Shuten-dōji.
His name was Homuramaru.
Because those around him were so enormous, he appeared small by comparison—but even so, he possessed a build that would make any human recoil at first sight, along with muscles tightened like steel.

Facing him across exchanged cups was an oni more than twice his size.
That massive body, covered in swollen muscles, was truly a solid mass of oni.
He was none other than the former Shuten-dōji—Sekiren.

“Hey—have you heard of the Legendary Shu?”
“Shu? What’s that?”

“You don’t even know what Shu is? It’s a stick. Just a stick.”
Sekiren grinned smugly and took a huge swig of his drink.
“A legendary stick? Like, something with insane power sealed inside it?”
“Supposedly it lets you become an existence that’s absolutely unbeatable.”
“But in the end, isn’t it just that the guy swinging it is crazy strong to begin with? Like me.”

“Don’t get cocky just because you’re a fledgling.”
“The former one should be settling into retirement by now. I’m doing a fine job as the current one.”

“Oh? Then I’ll remind you of the difference in our strength. Get up!”
“Sounds good. I’m all for it!”

After a brief bout of punching and wild rampaging, the two were once again sitting shoulder to shoulder, calmly pouring drinks for each other as if nothing had happened.

“The tales about this thing called the Legendary Shu—their details change depending on who’s telling them. …But there’s one thing they all have in common.”

Saying that, Sekiren tipped back his drink and glanced at Homuramaru.
He let out a short laugh and spoke as if showing off the bulge of his muscles.

“It shows itself before a mighty martial artist.”

“Then that’d be me.”
Homuramaru tipped back his cup, unfazed.

“…Don’t get cocky, fledgling.”
Sekiren’s face, flushed red, was the very image of a legendary oni.

“I’ll take you on.”

The oni’s drinking feast went on until deep into the night.
They drank, then brawled; brawled, then drank.
There was no anger, no hatred—only a feast where they hurled their strength against one another.

For the oni, drinking together and trading blows was, above all else, the finest form of training.