Chapter 72: Swords, Sweat, and Smoldering Ruins

[ Sendai Outskirts, Japan ]

The morning after Logan's departure, serenity hung over the Sendai forest cottage like dew on leaves. That illusion was swiftly broken when Colleen Wing, clad in her training gear and wielding two bokken like a challenge incarnate, turned to Daisy with a raised brow and a deceptively calm voice.

"Ever tried swordsmanship? Helps with mental clarity."

Daisy blinked at her, toast halfway to her mouth. "Clarity? I've got powers that sing like a tuning fork. Isn't that enough clarity?"

Colleen smiled patiently. "Mental agitation slows recovery. Swordplay can help focus the mind."

Since Daisy's to-do list was currently blank—apart from Eat. Train. Hunt Madame Gao.—she shrugged. "Sure. Let's dance, Musashi."

What began as mild curiosity turned into a full workout. With Daisy's enhanced reflexes and superhuman stamina, she lasted through dozens of exchanges with Colleen, blades snapping through air with brutal elegance. Despite being a while she was in serious swordplay, Daisy's physical instincts kept her afloat.

But Colleen, the ever-watchful teacher, noticed the undercurrent of rage humming beneath Daisy's strikes.

"Your murderous aura isn't helping your healing," she warned, parrying a heavy downward strike.

Daisy offered a sardonic smile. "Yeah, but emotional intensity amplifies my powers. Anger makes the shockwaves extra spicy."

Colleen tsked. "That's not swordsmanship. That's kitchen-knife hacking."

Then came the lecture.

Colleen's tone softened as she demonstrated a sweeping kata. "Swordsmanship is more than killing. It's about truth. The sword becomes an extension of the self. To fight with it—you must feel it. Not just swing it."

Daisy listened—sort of. The explanation sounded poetic, maybe even profound, but her brain was full of too many other things. She'd studied astrophysics, computer languages, disassembled and reassembled more weapons than she could count. Swordplay? That got two days of SHIELD crash-course attention, wedged somewhere between sniper drills and Russian dialects, and some decent experience from past life.

She knew the basics—forward lunge, block, hack like a savage—but the deeper philosophy? That was new territory.

Still, she didn't scoff. She practiced every move seriously, mimicking Colleen's form. Her feet aligned. Her strikes became more measured. There was beauty in repetition.

By the time the sun dipped low, casting gold across the glade, Daisy noticed something strange.

The ache behind her eyes—the one Madame Gao's chi blast had etched into her skull—was gone.

"It's the sword," Colleen said when Daisy asked. "The focus, the rhythm. It heals."

Daisy remained skeptical. "More like my mutant-level recovery kicked in. But sure, let's pretend it was the way of the blade."

Colleen wasn't offended. She just smiled and kept teaching. Her lessons branched across styles—Japanese kendo, Chinese jian, even flashes of European longsword technique. The woman was a walking encyclopedia of edge-based lethality.

Unlike Daisy, who treated a blade like a portable blunt-force trauma stick, Colleen moved with the grace of a dancer and the precision of a surgeon.

And slowly, Daisy adapted.

By the end of the week, her strikes were cleaner. Her mind, surprisingly calmer. The fractured noise of her thoughts had quieted, not completely, but enough to give her breathing room.

In that clarity, her powers evolved.

Her frequency field expanded. She could sense life-signs farther, sharper—no longer just pressure waves but emotional residue. Madame Gao's chi had left a fingerprint in her system, and now Daisy could faintly mimic its wavelength.

It wasn't full-blown telepathy, more like an empathic radar—vague and unreliable, but useful. And best of all? It added the tiniest smidge of defense against mind readers.

One point to House Johnson.

Colleen noticed the difference too.

"You've grasped the fundamentals in a week. Clearly, I'm a brilliant teacher," she said with a grin so smug it could fuel Tokyo's power grid.

Daisy, now used to her antics, smirked. "Yeah, yeah, you're amazing. Should I kneel and call you Sensei?"

"Wouldn't mind. I'm considering opening a dojo. You'd be my star pupil."

Daisy choked on her tea. "A dojo? With this kind of training? You'd arm a small army. You sure you wanna do that?"

Colleen shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Swordsmanship builds character. I'd ensure martial ethics came first. It won't cause any problems for your... SHIELD friends."

Daisy muttered, "Nicky's gonna pop a vein..."

She didn't have the heart to tell Colleen that her future mentor, Bakuto, would someday drag her dojo into Hand recruitment hell. But hey, that hadn't happened yet. Butterfly effects and all.

Besides, if she hadn't pushed Colleen into this path, maybe the dojo would've never happened. Maybe Bakuto would've remained just a creepy swordsman with a fixation on legacy. And maybe the Hand wouldn't infiltrate Colleen's life.

So instead of arguing, Daisy offered, "If you're ever in New York, hit me up. You'll have backup."

With that, she set off alone.

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[ Tokyo, Japan ]

The teleportation limit had stretched—now about fifty kilometers. Enough for forest hops, not cross-country leaps. So she blinked her way to Fukushima and hopped a Shinkansen back to Tokyo.

Her mission? Supplies and adamantium? Sure, still on the list. But the real prize was Madame Gao. The ancient puppetmaster.

First stop: the temple ruins.

The once-stately building where the funeral turned firefight had occurred was now a blackened skeleton. Fire had devoured everything—wood, cloth, corpses. Police tape fluttered like funeral streamers, and officers swarmed the place like ants over sugar.

The damage was thorough.

Professionals had done this—cleared traces, scorched remains. Classic Hand.

She flashed her fake FBI badge. The younger cop, eyebrows raised and indignation boiling, called her out immediately.

"This is a local matter! We don't need FBI interference—"

The older officer, weathered and practical, waved him down. "Let her through."

Daisy surveyed the ruins. The scent of char and iron still clung to the air. Deformed blades lay beside melted firearms. Charred fabric told stories no one could hear anymore.

"Shingen Yashida?" she asked, turning to the police inspector beside her.

He shook his head. "Too many bodies. Still searching. The fire... was extensive."

Too extensive.

Daisy's instincts buzzed. The man was likely taken. Gao wouldn't waste a resource like Yashida.

As she turned to leave, a flicker of movement caught her attention.

An older officer with a battered face—nose crooked, eyes bruised, like he'd tangoed with a bulldozer—hurried toward her.

"Miss Daisy Johnson?"

Her brows furrowed. The ID she used didn't carry her real name.

"Who's asking?"

He bowed so low his spine practically cracked, then straightened and produced a letter. No explanation. No small talk. Just a hasty bow and a coward's exit, ignoring the police chief's protests.

Daisy stared at the envelope in her hand.

Well.

That was ominous.

To Be Continued...

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