"Can Rōichirō… hear us?"
The ghosts startled—until they realized Roy was talking to Urokodaki. Shinsuke, Fukuda, and the rest exhaled—false alarm—and felt a little deflated.
"Mm." Urokodaki kept his back to Roy, brought the food over, and set it down: miso soup, small bowls of rice, and—this time—yesterday's leftover boar leg, sliced and fanned on a plate.
"Eat first." The old man, tengu mask on, picked a slice and popped it in his mouth.
Roy warmed his stomach with a sip of miso. After a few quick bites, he accepted the hot tea Urokodaki passed him.
"Walk me through it." Steam curled as Urokodaki knelt by the brazier and listened to Roy's account.
His conclusion matched Roy's late-night review:
"Your trick of tying the hilt with your loosened sleeve hem is clever—but it's still a trick.
"Tricks are what the weak are forced to when there's no other way."
He remembered his clashes with fearsome demons. Lucky for Roy that this "enemy" was his father; against an Upper Moon, even clever tricks rarely buy you your life.
"So you keep training—double your practice, double your meals. When the sun turns, then you strike."
"That's what I figured." Roy smiled, drained his tea in one pull, grabbed the practice sword from the wall, slid the door open, and pushed into the heart of Mt. Sagiri through the blowing snow.
His figure sank step by step; Urokodaki watched a moment, then fetched chisel and block and began carving.
"Master's carving him a mask," Makomo whispered. "Means he's won Master's approval."
Beside her, Sabito rested a hand on his hilt and said nothing.
…
"Twenty-three thousand one hundred twenty-eight…"
"…twenty-nine…"
Sunday: 24,000. Monday: 26,000. Tuesday: 28,000. On the eve of the doctor trip—
Roy loosed a crescent slash—three rounds of "ten-thousand swings" done.
Skritch— The slash left the practice blade and buried into a post three meters out, cleaving it clean in two.
Panel ping: [Swordsmanship +18]
[Sword Lv.1: 88/100 (Novice) → Lv.2: 6/1000 (Proficient)]
"Monster!"
"How is he 'blade-projection' already after half a month?" Shinsuke yelped, popping up from the split stump—he'd almost been cut by that stroke.
Wind-shearing "air cuts"—that's blade-projection. It had been his dream in life.
"At this pace, he's not far from graduation—cutting the boulder." Fukuda watched closer: the slash flew nearly four meters before it bit the post. That range already meets Urokodaki's "final trial."
In the original, that trial is to cut a spherical boulder with a three-meter radius.
Roy's cut had clearly exceeded that.
"No," Sabito said from the birch, eyes brighter than ever—seeing beyond what Fukuda saw. "Master won't let him leave so soon.
"He's not us. He hasn't reached anything like his limit.
"Only when we wring him dry do we honor the talent he was given."
He's incredible, Rōichirō. If it's you… maybe you really can change this rotten world. Sabito thought, as Makomo tugged his sleeve.
"Hey—was Giyu-nii this amazing back then?" Her eyes glittered.
Giyu Tomioka, current Water Hashira—the pride of Urokodaki, Sabito, Makomo, and all their spirits. Until Roy, Sabito believed he was Master's most gifted disciple.
Now… "Giyu's far below Rōichirō," Sabito said, firm. "Before Breathing, he couldn't project his cuts—let alone four meters on the first go."
"I knew Rōichirō was special…"
"He is." Sabito chuckled. "What I'm dying to know: when he does graduate, how will Master test him?"
A ten-meter boulder? A thirty-meter waterfall? Or just a mountain?
He stared at Roy. The boy exhaled long, drew a handkerchief, and cleaned the blade.
Yubashiri is a blade; the practice sword is a blade. Not a person—there's no need to be jealous. Roy wiped carefully, nurturing the bond. Soon the next day's plan arrived. As expected—
"Add two thousand tomorrow," Urokodaki said, stepping out of the trees. The snow piled on his shoulders betrayed how long he'd been watching.
"Okay," Roy replied simply.
He finished wiping, then followed Master back to the warm cabin.
Dinner was the pheasants he'd hunted yesterday. This time he didn't peck—he devoured three by himself and flopped on the warm platform, sleeping off his full belly—Makomo glaring, aggrieved, at his feet…
Watching and not tasting—too cruel for a spirit. She yearned to remember what "delicious" felt like; she'd been dead too long.
Sk-syaa… Faint snores.
Under Makomo's gaze, Roy fell quickly and deeply asleep. Maybe it was release from Silva's test; maybe a traveler's calm before a journey. When he opened his eyes back on Kukuroo Mountain, that familiar fatigue had eased, and he cut two minutes off his usual "stay in bed."
Dong… The chime rang.
Daily run: go.
He ran from the castle down, past the butler villa, to the foot of the mountain—then blinked. Two familiar faces—
Grandfather Zeno and butler Tsubone.
"Morning, young master." Zebro's sharp eyes had made him a doorman for decades. He doffed his cap and bowed from afar. Zeno and Tsubone turned to glance at Roy.
Tsubone placed a hand to her chest in greeting—and her body shifted—into a small sedan. The door popped open; Zeno glanced Roy over and, without expression, got in. The engine roared and the car sped down the mountain.
Perfect Girl Seven Transformations—admittedly, a very handy ability…
Roy stood watching and decided: when he got back, he'd have Gotoh "turn into one" for him too!
~~~
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