"The sword is an extension of your arm. Where your hands and feet can't reach, the blade does the work for you."
"Your grip is wrong. Straighten your back, lean forward slightly. Keep your lower body stable, eyes level with the blade tip—everything should form one straight line."
"When you strike down, focus the force on the blade's edge. That's how you maximize cutting power."
"Wrong. Raise your hands higher. Where's your elbow?"
"I told you to look forward, not stick your chin out like you're asking to get stabbed."
"Downward strikes need to be perfectly straight. Swing like that and you'll snap the blade in half."
"One, strike down. Put more force into it."
"Two, again."
"Three, four. If you don't finish two thousand strikes before sunset, you're not getting dinner!"
In a clearing deep within Mount Sagiri, broken wooden stakes littered the ground. Sakonji Urokodaki tirelessly corrected Roy's stance, footwork, and sword angles. After observing carefully for a while, he assigned the task—"two thousand swings by today"—and vanished into the mist.
According to Shinsuke, Fukuda, and the others, if a beginner could manage one thousand swings without collapsing from exhaustion, that alone was an achievement. But two thousand? They could only think, 'That Eiichiro guy's going to suffer.'
"Master is upset," Makomo said, perched on a tall birch branch. She leaned down to watch Roy focus on his training, strike after strike. The young man moved methodically and calmly, showing no dissatisfaction or complaint about Sakonji Urokodaki's sudden increase in workload.
Too composed.
"He's not upset," Sabito corrected her. "Master's just never taught a student as talented as Eiichiro before."
Comprehending the principles of breathing in only ten days—that kind of talent was unheard of. Sabito's eyes, hidden beneath his fox mask, stayed locked on Roy as he practiced. For just a moment, his vision blurred, and he saw young Giyu instead—the same thick black hair, the same exceptional talent that had once made him envious.
"How many swings did Senior Brother Giyu manage at first?" Makomo asked curiously.
"Him?" Sabito smiled. "At first, he could barely do eight hundred. Master had to guide his arms through the last two hundred to help him finish."
His voice grew wistful. "But later, his endurance improved dramatically. At his peak, he completed thirty thousand swings in a single day—ten thousand, three times over. That's when Master took him to the waterfall to begin real breathing technique training."
"Three times? I only managed twenty thousand," Makomo pouted, clearly unsatisfied with herself.
"You were already incredible. Fukuda over there could barely manage eighteen hundred at most."
Shinsuke interjected, mercilessly calling out his friend's old failure.
"You're no better!" Fukuda grabbed Shinsuke's neck from behind. "You worthless bastard—you only did ten more than me! Ten! And you brag about it every single day!"
"Ten more is still more!" Shinsuke fought back, going straight for Fukuda's crotch. The two cursed and wrestled, stirring up cold winds as usual.
Sabito had long grown used to their crude antics. His eyes remained fixed on Roy below, curious to see what level this beginner could reach.
'At the very least, I can't do worse than Tanjiro,' Roy thought, striking down blade after blade. In the original story, Tanjiro's first record had been fifteen hundred swings. Sakonji Urokodaki had added another five hundred on top of that, clearly testing his limits.
But two thousand was still too low. With a physical constitution ten times that of an ordinary person, Roy felt confident he could complete a true "ten thousand basic swings"—swinging the sword ten thousand times in a single day—as long as his stance and angles were correct.
The blade sliced through wind and snow with a sharp whistle. From morning to noon, then to evening, Roy only paused to drink water and eat two dumplings Sakonji Urokodaki had prepared. Soon he was approaching nine thousand swings.
"Nine thousand one, nine thousand two, nine thousand three, nine thousand four."
With each strike, he could no longer maintain his earlier composure. Exhaustion set in. His arms began to ache. His chest heaved like broken bellows as he gasped for air.
"He's a monster," Shinsuke muttered. The spirits had fallen eerily silent. They'd gone from wrestling to lounging around lazily, and now stood upright in stunned silence, watching Roy. Only one day had passed.
"You're right—he's not human, he's a demon!" Shinsuke refused to believe his eyes. "That Eiichiro guy must be some evil demon who's deliberately approaching Master. Once Master lowers his guard, he'll bite his head off!"
"That's bullshit!" Fukuda smacked him hard on the forehead. "Do you think the sun's just for decoration? What demon would dare be active during the day?!"
Though Mount Sagiri stayed shrouded in thick fog year-round, sunlight occasionally penetrated the mist. Any demon—even the Demon King himself—would turn to ash.
Still, being able to swing a sword ten thousand times as a complete beginner was absolutely astonishing. That Eiichiro guy kept shattering everyone's expectations over and over again!
Sabito stood frozen. He felt a tug on his sleeve and glanced sideways to see Makomo's bright eyes staring at him. "We can be free."
Freedom—the dream they'd all longed for.
"Yes." Makomo was right. They could all be freed.
Sabito took a deep breath and nodded firmly. When he looked back, the young man in the birch forest stood in the falling snow, using his last reserves of strength to step forward and deliver one final slash.
The blade sank into the wooden stake like scissors cutting paper, severing it cleanly in two.
"Ten thousand!"
[Notification: Swordsmanship +10]
Roy exhaled a long breath that turned into white mist. The broken stake rolled to his feet. He stood there, supporting himself with the sword. Ice had formed on his bangs from sweat that had frozen.
He smiled. "Master, is dinner ready?"
Behind him, a shadowy figure emerged from the misty mountain forest. Wearing his tengu mask, Sakonji Urokodaki stared silently at the young man's back for a long moment before speaking. "Tomorrow, add two thousand more."
He turned and walked away.
A low chuckle escaped Roy's lips. Then his shoulders began to shake. He lifted his chin toward the sky, welcoming the wind and snow, and his laughter transformed into something wild and unrestrained.
"This is amazing!"
His laughter pierced through the thick fog, startling a flock of birds into flight. One particularly slow snowy owl, too frightened to escape in time, crashed headfirst into a branch and dropped to the ground, unconscious.