The way of the sword is long—I will seek above and below…
Master's fish was delicious—just missing a dab of wasabi.
Roy took the practice blade from the wall and went deep into the forest to train as usual.
Behind him, Urokodaki came treading through wind and snow with a basket of gravel. He told Roy to wait, hung the basket from the blade tip, wired it in place, and said expressionlessly: "Train."
Roy felt the weight on the tip, glanced over… the old man walked off, hands clasped, lighter on his feet than usual.
He even seemed to be humming some nameless tune?
"Hee-hee… Master's mad," Makomo giggled behind her hand. "Serves Rōichirō right for asking too many questions…
"Master must think he's only swung a sword a few days and already his tail's up…"
"A student need not be inferior to his teacher; a teacher need not be worthier than a student. Is it possible… that 'Rōichirō now is already Master's limit?" Sabito's fox mask hid his face; his sudden words froze the very air.
"Impossible!" Shinsuke rolled off a birch and drifted around Roy. "I admit it—Rōichirō's a freak—but Master's soaked in sword for fifty years. He can't be less."
"No one said Master's less," Fukuda yawned, legs dangling from a trunk. "Sabito meant vigor. Master's old—he's not at peak. What's strange about being below a youth?"
"If you don't argue with me for a day, will you die?"
"Yeah—and I'm already dead. You gonna kill me twice?"
"I'll choke you!"
"Come on—see if I don't kick your nuts!"
A cold gust—Shinsuke and Fukuda were brawling again.
Makomo ignored them, tugged Sabito's sleeve. "Hey—how many cuts do you think Master's limit is?"
Sabito was silent, eyes on the boy trying to swing without spilling gravel. After a time: "Definitely less than Giyu now."
When Giyu left the mountain he could handle small-fry demons. Now… five rounds of "ten-thousand swings" a day shouldn't be beyond him.
Plop. A pebble fell from the basket…
Roy frowned, bent to pick it up, and set it back. He paused to breathe. He had to accept the truth—weighted swings while keeping the gravel from flying out was far harder than he'd imagined.
"The steadier the hands, the harsher the blade—the truer the line, the fewer the gaps."
At dusk, when he dragged sore arms home, Urokodaki was on the stump carving masks, steady as ever.
He said as much.
He didn't ask how many swings; Roy didn't answer. Master and student ate in tacit understanding, then each lay flat on a corner of the warm bed.
Night. A few sparrows preened on the eaves…
Roy laced his hands behind his head and stared at the rafters. Shinsuke, pig-headed from a beating, lay curled up. Urokodaki said, "Rōichirō. Don't rush."
"Mm," Roy answered softly.
Eyes closed.
Makomo slipped in late and tucked herself at his side. On the pillar, Sabito folded his arms and feigned sleep. Shades of wind flexed the paper windows…
Drowsiness rose; without noticing, Roy left the snow country and returned to reality.
That familiar drop—
He opened his eyes. Gotoh had already gotten up from the sofa and was helping him wash.
"What time?"
"Four."
"What's going on outside?" Toothbrush in his mouth, Roy heard shouting beyond the window—sirens keening below. He glanced over—
"Fire," Gotoh said, packing ointment. "Just as you said—Kastro's trial has begun."
Flames swallowed Room 1989, adding heat to summer's heat.
Roy finished, pulled on his track suit, and ran. Gotoh used the slot to prep breakfast. Each had their role—just as Kastro was busy desperately fleeing, with Illumi right behind, silent and relentless.
"This psycho—what did I do to you? Say something! You torch my room on sight—and it's not even my room…" Kastro's hair was singed, a gash leaking down his back. He checked the time in the chaos—four and a half hours till the airport. He set his jaw, dove through a window, clawed the wall, and slid down—vanishing into the crowd…
Roy happened to jog past. He looked up—caught Illumi peering down. Their eyes met; Roy calmly looked away.
One look. Two. Three. The foolish otōto watched Roy go, planted his hands, and flipped over the edge after Shidoulang…
"God—look! Another jumper!"
The crowd frayed further—firelight and sirens howled…
Roy held an easy pace, circled the Arena, and came back at breakfast-time.
The door was ajar. A "girl" sat in his chair, complaining Gotoh was stingy and wouldn't feed her. Roy arched a brow and walked in.
"Hey, Roy-chan, you're here. I came to say goodbye and look at him—" Bisky pointed at Gotoh, indignant. "Wouldn't even give me a sip of congee."
"Good job." Roy patted Gotoh's shoulder and sat opposite Bisky, treating her like air as he ate under Gotoh's care.
Avocado spread with fried eggs and bacon, buttered toast—simple, but complete.
Bisky swallowed and said, "Share."
Roy sped up.
She cut him a look. "Please. I paid for this trip."
Wing's the one footing the bill, she added silently. But the student's money is the master's money, right?
Not Roy's problem. He cleaned the last toast, washed it down with milk, dabbed his mouth, and finally glanced at her. "Well? What do you want?"
She puffed her cheeks. "Can't I talk to you for no reason?"
"No."
"…"
Bisky began to pop the top.