The morning was cold and brief. The air in the alley was hard, footsteps breaking against frozen dust. When he woke, his mother was already preparing breakfast.
There was no time to deal with the pain in his chest. Habits had settled into his body: the bandage, a small dose of bitter medicine, a piece of bread.
In the hallway stood a man he remembered from the night before — a solid figure, precise in movement, wearing a dark cloak. Next to him sat a sparrow that did not fly away. It wasn't a sparrow. It was something called a Kasugai crow. It was tied to the man's shoulder with a small cord.
The man spoke without unnecessary words. His voice was dry, observant.
"My name is Shibata Kenzō," he said. "I am a Kanoe."
His mother shifted beside him, her arms folded around herself. She looked at him for a long time, as if waiting for a change — in his face, in his words. Kenzō took a small scroll from his belt and extended it to her.
On the paper was a seal, followed by a written order. Not a notice. Not a request. The expression on his mother's face grew complicated.
"Mother, please, I promise I'll be careful," he said when he saw her look.
Last night they had a long conversation. At first, she didn't want to let him go, thinking he was too weak to fight. But later she relented.
She looked at him and hugged him tightly. "Never break that promise."
When Kenzō saw that, he sighed and said, "I'll show you something your son will have to deal with often. But don't spread rumors about it — otherwise, I might have a problem."
He drew his sword and raised it so the morning light struck the blade. It wasn't shiny. It was black, without reflection.
In that gleam another truth revealed itself — not just a weapon, but a mark. Nichirin. For Arai, it was an image that didn't fit into his ordinary days: a sword whose color and form meant belonging. Even now, he wished to hold something like that in his own hands.
Kenzō then repeated what was written in the order — to take the surviving boy with potential for training. The words sounded cold, as if they were merely an announcement and nothing more. His mother hesitated a moment longer; the man's tone was too cold, and she felt as if she had sold her son to demons.
Arai stood beside her, his hand still resting on his father's knife, which he had decided to take with him as both a memory and a talisman.
The farewell was quiet. His mother hugged him one last time and placed a small bottle of herbs in his hand. She didn't cry aloud. Her eyes, however, remained full of a depth that needed no gestures.
She spoke in one plain voice, without ornament:
"Go and learn. If you can't do it, you have somewhere to return. If not, come visit me someday."
Arai nodded at once.
The journey began in the silence of a village slowly waking. Kenzō pulled his cloak over his shoulders and pointed to the crow. It gave a short, buzzing cry, hanging from its master's arm.
"You were sent here by an officer," Kenzō said.
"The message arrived at dawn. It was an order from the prefecture. Not every child gets a chance. You have something… observed."
He didn't care to explain what that meant. He didn't need to.
They walked on. It was the first time Arai had walked for so long; his mother had never allowed him to do anything strenuous because of his illness. His body was weak and in pain, but Arai didn't think of resting. He knew this was nothing compared to a real fight with a demon.
As they passed through a small town, Arai noticed new things he had never seen before. Street lamps — small cylinders that veiled light at regular intervals. Wires stretched overhead. Simple, quiet technical things that didn't belong to the old tales.
He saw them and couldn't name the feeling they gave him: human work and order that reshaped the land. The world he thought ended at the stream reached farther. Carts without horses moved down the streets, and people watched them as if seeing a new kind of bird. Arai felt something that could not easily be named. It was the realization that the space he knew was not the limit.
Arai's village was far from developed civilization, so such things had never reached there.
The road led through small settlements, then narrowed into a path winding up toward the mountains. Kenzō walked beside him, step by step, without grand gestures.
He spoke only what was necessary: where they were going, who was there, and what he expected. In the distance, the silhouette of mountains appeared — dark and firm. There, beneath a low ridge, stood a house that did not look like an excuse. It was a house that held its silence. Few people passed along the road. Only the wind appeared at times between the trees.
Upward led dripping paths, and Arai felt that every ascent was a question of hope. He wasn't trained for this road.
Each step raised his pulse. The cough remained, constantly quieted by bandages and mixtures. Kenzō watched his movements, and later, when they stopped, he said:
"My old teacher lives up there. He used to be the Mist Hashira. He doesn't teach many. He knows what he's looking for. If you want to last here, you'll have to earn his approval."
No explanation — just a statement.
The house where the old teacher lived was far from common paths. It stood alone, surrounded by coniferous forest.
At the threshold greeted them a short man whose presence commanded silence. His hair was silver. His eyes were steady. He didn't waste words. When he introduced himself, Arai noticed the motion of his hand holding a wooden stick, as if he was used to repairing worn tools. Kenzō introduced Arai briefly:
"This boy might interest you."
The old man looked at Arai and said,
"I don't teach everyone. Not only because I'm old. I teach those who understand one thing: falling isn't failure — not standing back up is. But I warn you, because of your condition, the training is very harsh. Not everyone who comes stays."
His voice was quiet but firm. He didn't demand respect with words. He was a man whose history was visible in his eyes.
Training began immediately. Not officially, not in an academy. It was in a small yard, with two trees and hard ground. The few students there practiced routine drills — running, climbing, striking targets. Arai tried to imitate what they did. He ran in circles, climbed ropes, repeated breathing exercises in water that the old man named but didn't explain.
The first three days were crushing. Arai had more coughing fits than ever before; without medicine, he would've been on the edge of death.
He stayed in a small hut the old man had prepared for his students. Arai still didn't understand how a single switch could light something called a lamp — and that he had one in his own room.
The old man explained the breathing system and the fundamentals of a Demon Slayer.
He was a former Mist Hashira, so he taught his students, including Arai, the Mist Breathing style specifically.
Arai ran, and after three breaths he collapsed into coughing that robbed him of air. He tried to keep pace, and his body rebelled. When the others quieted, he lay with his hands clenched around his chest.
The old man stood over him and, without words, brought a hand to his chest, feeling the breaking rhythm. Then he said,
"Not everything used by others will suit you. You'll take different steps. It won't be easy."
Arai repeated the exercises again and again. Though his body collapsed, his mind did not yield. Each fit taught him something about the space between inhale and exhale. He learned to hold his breath briefly to lessen pain.
He learned that when a cough struck, the best move wasn't to fight it — but to use it. Those were the first, quiet lessons. The old man watched, speaking little, his approval shown only through silence.
Arai sat on a stone near the trees, fingers hardened from the cold metal of the sword he kept beside him. Overhead stretched telegraph wires, and he memorized the silence within them.
He knew his body would limit what he could do. He also knew that if he wanted to stay, he would have to find another path through pain. Then he stood and went to train again. Each step was slow and precise. Each breath was calculated. Each cough brought something new. And most of all — he breathed.