Several gazes swung over in perfect unison, as if they'd rehearsed it.
Makomo snapped her head up. Sabito's eyes shone.
Urokodaki set down his knife and turned to look.
Roy flashed a grin—bright, full of teeth—and started talking as if he'd already decided. "I promised Sensei that after I kill the Demon King, I'd come back up the mountain and drink with all my senpais. I can't toast by myself, right? I kept picturing everyone together—so much more fun…"
A chill draft swept the room. Makomo ghosted to his side in one instant, clutching his hand. "Roy, do you have a way?"
Hope and nerves mingled in her shining eyes.
Roy nodded lightly. "Of course."
Then he looked around, gaze settling on Sabito, on Shinji and Fukuda. "I'd like each of you to choose an object—a new dwelling. With that as a vessel, I can hunt with no worries and avenge you all properly."
"And you don't need to fear you'll fade away."
"What kind of object?"
"Any special requirements? Something with energy—wood, stone?"
"Roy, can you really do it again?"
The house suddenly felt alive. Cold wind spiraled around Roy as the spirits swarmed him with questions.
Sabito leaned against the post, watching silently while the boy answered each query without a hint of impatience. He couldn't remember the last time he'd so truly felt: having Roy as a junior is a blessing.
Himself, Makomo, Shinji and Fukuda—perhaps even Sensei—none of them had noticed…
They'd begun to rely on Roy.
When did that start?
Probably the very day he stepped onto Sagiri Mountain with his little brother.
Sabito's mouth quirked. He stepped forward, shouldered the others aside, and clapped Roy's shoulder. "Let me set the example."
If anything went wrong, someone would have to bear it. Sabito didn't doubt Roy's skill—he just refused to let anyone else "go" before he did.
If fading was fated, then let the eldest brother be first.
"Brother…" Makomo looked from Sabito to Roy, words sticking in her throat. Shinji and Fukuda fell quiet—if Sabito decided, no one could shake him.
Their eyes turned to Roy, imploring.
Roy was calmer than any of them. He said nothing, simply dipped his chin at Sabito.
Sabito cast about—then saw Urokodaki wash his hands, kneel at a hidden compartment, and lift out a box of small wooden figures.
One by one—Sabito, Makomo, Shinji, Fukuda—perfectly carved in miniature.
The old man set Sabito's figurine on the bedding. "Use this."
"Best choice," Sabito quipped at Roy. "Only dead students get one. You and Giyu definitely aren't on the list."
They were memorial carvings Urokodaki had made—some while the subjects were watching over his shoulder.
The others shared a knowing smile and gathered their own statues in a neat line along the bedding.
Roy didn't hesitate. He took Sabito's figure, sheathed it in nen, then snipped—kachak—with his Will-Scissors. Shū applied!
The wood gleamed under a thin white film of nen—no longer mere timber, but a nen vessel.
He set it down and gestured. "Please, Brother."
Sabito nodded, poured himself like mist into the figure… The onlookers held their breath… and the little wooden Sabito opened its eyes with a tiny gasp.
He flexed—arms, legs, neck—everything moved. A perfectly scaled-down Sabito.
"It worked!" Shinji blurted, reaching to muss the top of Sabito's wooden head—only to freeze under a single sharp look, then retract his hand, sheepish.
Sabito stared at his new body, as if reborn, then dropped to his knees before Roy.
But Roy saw it coming and sidestepped.
"Good… very good…" Urokodaki's old eyes brimmed. He said heavily, "Roy, your brother thanks you. Accept it."
A new body, a second life—what else could it be but a life-saving grace?
"Sensei is right." Sabito curled a fist. "Shame there's no sword. Otherwise, I'd go down the mountain now and fight that thing with you!"
"As if we'd let you have all the glory."
"Yeah—if we're going, we're all going!"
"Exactly! We'll get the smiths at the Swordsmith Village to forge a set of miniature Nichirin. Let's see if it keeps its head next time!"
Their spirits rose like a wave. Roy felt a tug on his sleeve—Makomo, beaming up at him. "My turn, Roy."
"I wouldn't forget you, Sister."
He took her carving and repeated the process—Shū—and Makomo dove in headfirst. When she looked out through eyes of wood, she twirled with delight. To feel alive again—what a wonder.
"Me next—me next—and me—"
One by one—Shinji, Fukuda, Watanabe, Shimizu—the little carvings woke, stretching, hopping, chattering. To a stranger it would look like they'd walked into a tiny kingdom of living wood.
Urokodaki gazed at them smiling, and the guilt that had gnawed his heart for years quietly loosened its claws.
"Sensei—the pot's boiling."
Glug-glug—
Steam pried at the lid; Makomo darted in, killed the flame, set the lid—one smooth motion. The sort of thing she could never have done before.
"I'm coming, I'm coming…" Urokodaki lifted the lid, letting the scent of miso fill the room.
A whole chorus of sniffing commenced. The little beings froze mid-roughhouse, surprised to find—they could smell. They turned to Roy.
He rubbed his chin, thinking—then smiled as it clicked. Sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch—at bottom, perception is pattern turned into signal and passed to the brain. Nen is born from imagination; with nen animating these vessels, the five senses emerge naturally.
"You can hear, see, smell, touch, taste—but you can't digest."
Roy laughed. "Congratulations, senpais. Welcome back."
Shinji leapt up and popped him on the shoulder. "I knew you'd pull it off!"
He barely landed before Fukuda caught him by the scruff and choked him into submission. "Easy—this is wood, idiot. A little gentler!"
"You scared now?" Fukuda snorted, but he let go, pressing Shinji's head down. Then, like Sabito, he bowed deeply to Roy, and Shimizu, Watanabe, Yazuku each followed suit in turn.
Roy stopped dodging and accepted it freely. He glanced to Sabito by the post; they shared a grin.
"Soup's up!"
Makomo, legs pattering, brought a pot to the brazier, a dab of porridge still on her lip—she'd sneaked a taste.
The crowd swarmed, eyes full of wonder.
Urokodaki brought out sashimi, and the scene pinched his heart; the "odd souls" who had haunted the forests had found an anchor. That too was a kind of release.
He told them to take bowls and sit. They bowed their heads and ate with gusto.
"Ittadakimasu," Urokodaki intoned.
Then the storm hit the table: Shinji and Fukuda devoured like they'd starved for years; even Makomo and Yazuku took second bowls.
Sabito scolded with a smile. "Enough to taste. Roy told you—you can eat but not digest. Don't waste the rice."
"It's fine," Roy said. He understood. Starved that long, who wouldn't go feral at the first sight of a meal?
"Let them eat," Urokodaki said. "There's plenty of rice."
They were only little after all; they couldn't put away much. Soon, there was laughter, empty bowls, and warm bellies.
Then it was washing up—Roy side by side with Sensei, Makomo, and Sabito—and packing.
The house settled into quiet again.
He'd carried in a single basket the day he'd arrived. He carried out the same: a change of clothes, a wrapped bundle of rice balls, and his short blade in hand.
Time to go.
The door creaked open.
Urokodaki said nothing; he put together fresh rice balls with sashimi, pressed them into Roy's basket, patted his shoulder, smoothed a wrinkle in his clothes. A thousand words dwindled to one: "Go."
Sabito, Makomo, Shinji, Fukuda—stood in a row, silent.
Roy waved and said nothing, turning away without taking so much as a wisp of cloud.
Morning light rippled through fog and fell in motes on his not-so-tall back.
Makomo cupped her hands to her mouth and called, voice bright and breaking, "Come back safe!"
Roy's steps paused. "Of course."
One more stride—and he vanished into the trees.
"Don't stare," Sabito murmured, palm on Makomo's head. "It won't be long. You'll see him again."
She nodded dutifully, but her body betrayed her—rooted where she stood.
Half a year isn't long—but not short either. Roy wasn't made of wood; he knew how clingy the taste of parting could be. So like Giyu, he left quickly and cleanly. Not to run away—but to return.
And next time… next time they met, Muzan Kibutsuji would be dead.
His grip tightened on the sword. His pace lengthened—flash to flash, a phantom among trees—out of Sagiri Mountain and straight for Fujikasane.
Final Selection had begun.
…
Ubuyashiki Estate.
Wrapped in a blanket, Ubuyashiki Kagaya listened as Hina and Nichika reported on Selection Day logistics.
Then, from the side, the sound of prayer drifted to a stop. "Master, Tomioka Giyu has arrived," said the Stone Hashira.
Moments later, announced by the guards, the Water Hashira crossed the corridor in his red–yellow–white haori, travel-soiled and steady, and knelt before the Master—bringing the method of the Red Blade in his sleeves.
~~~
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