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With the New Year near, the wind and snow grew fiercer…
Mist soaked Roy's hair on Mt. Sagiri until it frosted over.
Freed from the basket of stones, back to ten-thousand swings—his blade felt weightless, fused to his palm, moving like an arm.
Master Urokodaki stood silently behind him, watching…
Ten meters ahead stood the rope-bound post.
Roy closed his eyes and set his breath; feet split, frame rooted on his axis. He opened them, raised both hands, and cut—the first stroke of the day.
Then… a second, a third, a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand, twenty thousand, thirty thousand, thirty-five thousand. Beyond the old limit with stones, heat rose in him, strength remained; he ripped off his scarf and kept going…
Thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight—forty thousand…
"Rōichirō's gonna make me lose count," Makomo pouted, eyes going in circles.
Sabito watched from a tall birch; below, Urokodaki watched in silence…
Forty thousand. Forty-two. Forty-seven. Forty-nine. Fifty thousand!
Roy's eyes narrowed; hands, waist, and foot linked—he stepped and cut—
Blade wind tore the air, shriek sharp enough to ache teeth; a crescent slash leapt out and cut the post ten meters away in two.
Plop… The post split and fell.
Silence—only the boy's ragged breathing churned the snow-laden air.
"Rōichirō…" Shinsuke, who'd been sprawled out, snapped upright. He'd braced himself—stones training would push Roy beyond his old ceiling, maybe to an eye-popping forty thousand. He still underestimated him.
"Honestly… I'm numb." Fukuda stood beside him, looking down at Roy. "If someone tells me one day Rōichirō chopped the Demon King down—I won't even be surprised.
"He's not human."
A ten-meter air slash…
"And the kicker—he hasn't even learned Breathing yet~"
Makomo finally didn't have to count. Dizzy, she clung to Sabito to stand. The fox-masked boy—like a split post—felt his heart cleanly halved by that one cut.
Silence ruled Mt. Sagiri. Giyu—Water Hashira may be your ceiling. It won't be Rōichirō's.
Sabito stared at Roy's back and could almost see it: let this monster loose on the world—what terror for demons.
"Rōichirō,"
"we can start the next phase…"
Snow capped Urokodaki's shoulders; his voice was hoarse under the tengu mask. He watched the boy. Roy sheathed the blade and blew a white dragon of breath, then shook his head.
"No. I still need to train." Calm voice. A grin, showing white teeth.
If Netero could punch a hundred thousand times a day, why couldn't he cut a hundred thousand? There was no reason he couldn't.
"When I reach a true limit, I'll tell you."
"You… heh-heh-heh…" Urokodaki's shoulders shook. He laughed—louder and louder—and tilted his head to the sky; a rare beam broke the fog, as if piercing the pall over everyone's hearts—demons!
"Good." The old man turned, relieved—tonight's hot pot would get a boar leg.
[Notice: Swordsmanship +40]
[Swordsmanship: Lv2 (996/1000) → Lv3 (36/10000)]
…
Dong—
Kukuroo Mountain.
4:00 a.m.—the chime struck.
On the third floor, eastmost small room of the butler's villa, Kastro opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.
Two months in, he'd gone from "knows nothing" newbie to "knows a little." He finally felt the weight of the word Zoldyck.
A 100 kg bulletproof vest, worn 24/7… shoes with weights… a 20 kg water cup… any given door required 500 kg of force to push…
This wasn't a butler's wing—it was a gravity chamber. Ten times gravity at that.
When he first reported, he'd wanted to swear off the place. But when he realized every intern butler had it the same—and even Zebro, who helped him push the first Gate, was the least of them—he cut his hair, shut up, and accepted it.
If only to land one good punch on that damned glasses-wearing man… show him: if he can, I can.
What was his name again… Wutong.
4:05—Kastro rolled out of bed. Morning drills. Four to four-thirty was his only time to spend as he wished.
He usually hit the Testing Gate for a set of Tiger-Bite Fist and traded a few words with Zebro—just to keep his last scraps of a safety net.
Join the Zoldycks, wade into deep waters. Here, there was no safety at all.
Any random dog could pressure-wave him off his feet.
To this day, the sound of Mike's bark still knotted his gut.
"Heh—get used to it." Zebro handed him a glass of water—warm as ever. In the original it was he who helped Gon & co. Now, after two months, he truly liked this young man.
Diligent. Driven. Good hair. Above all—obedient. A butler's cut.
"Thanks." Kastro finished his set, nodded, and raised the glass—then heard a familiar tread. He looked up—the black-haired boy jogged down the mountain. He bowed. "Good morning, young master."
After boar shank with Master last night, Roy slept like a log, swung through cognition, and woke—no lingering in bed.
Wash, run—down the mountain.
He stopped—five kilometers, barely a sweat. He nodded to Zebro, eyes on Kastro, and smiled. "Getting used to it?"
Kastro snapped to attention. "Don't worry, young master. I can take it."
Roy patted his shoulder. "Good."
He walked past them to the Testing Gate and stood.
"Going out?" Zebro thought—no Wutong? He rolled his sleeves. "Allow me—"
"No." Roy lifted his eyes to the fourth leaf. He raised a hand and set it to the wood.
Zebro froze. Kastro felt something in his bones and turned—
BOOM! The 32-ton fourth door swung wide, and in the middle stood the boy in dawn's glow, clapping dust from his hands.
~~~
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