A kettle simmered on the brazier; wisps of tea smoke warmed the little wooden house.
Urokodaki Sakonji knelt quietly and opened the "letter from home," eyes moving over Giyu's familiar chicken-scratch.
Giyu is a sentimental child—cold outside, warm within—gifted with the blade, if only his handwriting weren't so dire…
"Master Urokodaki, I hope you are well.
"The year-end is heavy with missions; I can't return. Please offer my respects on my behalf to Sabito, Makomo, and all our senpais and kouhais…
"Tell them Giyu has never stopped striving; to date I have slain 137 demons—may that comfort the souls above…"
A brief hundred-odd characters said all that mattered. At the end—
"Please take care of your health; may you continue to hone your craft… With much left unsaid, —Giyu Tomioka."
He closed the letter and sat in silence.
With Shinsuke, Fukuda and the others trailing Roy into the mountain, only Sabito and Makomo remained to see the crow arrive. They stayed beside the old man.
"Giyu's the real thing—worthy of the title 'Water Hashira,'" Sabito said, reading. Step by step he'd watched that tearful little sprout become a pillar of the Corps—his heart was full.
"137 demons, 137 letters… Giyu-nii really misses Master," Makomo nodded. Then, bright-eyed: "Hey—do you think Master will tell Giyu-nii about Rōichirō?"
"I so want to see his jaw drop when he finds out," she said, sparkling. Three rounds of "ten-thousand swings" a day—Rōichirō was simply not human…
Sabito knew what she wanted—just to see Giyu lose his cool. But with Giyu's frosty nature, even if he heard, he'd likely keep that blank mask and pretend it was nothing.
"He won't. At most he'll look twice. Besides…" Sabito glanced at Urokodaki, still staring into the letter. "Master won't tell him.
"The Demon Slayer Corps walks on knife-edges. One slip and you die… Master won't put weight on Giyu's back."
And indeed, Urokodaki said nothing and did not reply. He tucked the letter carefully into the wooden box by his pillow. Through the slit, you could see the thick stack inside.
The wind keened; snow swirled.
Closing the box, Urokodaki's back seemed more stooped. After a long stillness he pushed the door open and went out.
"Rōichirō, come with me."
It was a little past four. Rōichirō had finished his third "ten-thousand swings" and was ready to tack on another two thousand when Urokodaki called. He sheathed the blade and followed through the dense woods to an open place.
There he saw them—ten-odd small mounds, snow-thick on top. Urokodaki stood before them, lit a lantern at the shrine, and prayed with his back turned. "The year end is near. Come offer your New Year's greetings to your senpais."
The departed—now just a mound of earth; the sky their blanket, the earth their bed. Isn't that another kind of freedom?
And yet…
Seeing Sabito, Makomo, and all the gathered shadows standing silently behind Urokodaki, Roy paused, then smiled. "I won't."
He twirled the practice blade—carefree.
"I'd rather greet them with joy. When I've taken their revenge, I'll buy a jar of wine and drink it at their graves. I'm sure… they won't blame me."
The wind circled; a dozen ghostly figures turned as one. Shinsuke and Fukuda felt heat in their eyes; tears ran.
"Rōichirō, you…"
Who would blame you? Who dares blame you?
Makomo sniffled and clutched Sabito's sleeve. Beneath the fox mask, Sabito gazed deep at the boy, then up at the sky—silent, snow drifting. Only the old man and the disciple faced each other; at last Urokodaki nodded.
"Then it's settled. You still owe two thousand."
Roy swung the blade to his shoulder and, under many watching eyes, crunched back into the trees.
Before long—
One cut sent a four-meter arc that split the post in two.
[Swordsmanship +30]
Today's "ten-thousand swings": complete.
He blew out a long breath; frost bloomed in the air.
Back at the cabin he ate, kicked off his shoes, and climbed onto the warm platform. Tonight, besides Makomo, a few more ghosts squeezed in to sleep beside him.
Roy noticed, mouth quirking up. He closed his eyes and slept till dawn.
That familiar drop—
A single "Young master" shattered the dream and pulled him back.
The snow country was gone. With no hall clock to chime, Roy blinked awake; Gotoh had already set breakfast on the table.
"This isn't home; fresh ingredients are scarce. Please make do, young master."
Gotoh had no love for Arena fare. He could endure it—but for the young master? When he picked it up, he'd almost slit the chef's throat.
"What time is it?"
"Five-thirty a.m."
I slept that long? Roy frowned, slipped from bed, pulled on his track suit, and ran.
The food could sit; it wouldn't grow legs. If it cooled, the microwave would fix it. Morning run cannot break.
He took the elevator down and lapped the Arena. In upper floors, figures slipped into view, eyes tracking him—each face different.
In 1981, a pale hollow-eyed boy slept in a jar. He suddenly opened his eyes, hands on the rim…
Across the hall in 1989, a long-haired youth with gray-white hair down to his waist pressed to the window and stared down, twin flames blooming in his eyes—war intent focused…
Above, in the nest of Nen users around 200F, Wing practiced one-arm handstands, trying to condense Ren in his palm and explode into a jump. On the couch, a twin-tailed, flat-chested "loli" kneaded his shoulders.
Before the city woke, many were already moving. Roy didn't use Shadow Step—he ran ten kilometers at normal pace, then went up for breakfast and found several challenges waiting.
"Young master, Arena just notified me—Kastro has issued a challenge," Gotoh reported as he set the table. "Besides him, 'Meat Grinder' Harrison, 'Gunsaint' Guy, 'Ninja' Masaru Kikuta… seems they all want a piece of you."
"No Wing?"
"None."
"Then accept them all. Start with the worst of the worst—and kill."
~~~
Patreon(.)com/Bleam
— Currently You can Read 50 Chapters Ahead of Others!