(Merry Christmas, everyone! I'm celebrating today with a 5-chapter mass release.)
The fight with Ace served only one purpose for Gojo—to verify whether his Limitless could truly harm someone with a Logia-type Devil Fruit power. Even if he couldn't master Haki anytime soon, at least he wouldn't be helpless against any Logia user.
After that, Gojo's life flowed as it always had—training, hunting, earning money through those dangerous hunting games, and refining his Limitless even further. Days blurred together, quiet and repetitive, the rhythm of his existence unbroken.
Every now and then, during his training, he ran into a few acquaintances like Rick or Martha. But those encounters were rare. Rick, being a Marine, seldom came home—holidays were few, and even during those brief visits, Gojo was usually too absorbed in his own regimen to meet. Not that he minded.
Gojo had always been an introvert. He didn't crave companionship; in fact, he avoided it. Attachments make you vulnerable, he often reminded himself. And weakness is something I can't afford—not until I stand invincible in this world.
The wind outside his small home would sometimes carry the faint chatter of the village, laughter echoing faintly through the air. Gojo would pause only for a moment before resuming his focus, eyes sharp and unyielding, as if carving his path toward an untouchable destiny.
…
Finally, a full year had passed since Gojo's fight with Ace.
He was once again training in his usual place deep within the forest—a small hill crowned by a wide, open area. The spot was perfectly secluded, surrounded by a sea of trees and silence, disturbed only by the whisper of wind and the rustle of leaves. It was his sanctuary, the one place where he could push himself without restraint.
Gojo stood there, blindfolded as always, his sword resting lightly in his grip. In front of him stood a wooden dummy clutching an iron sword. Slowly, he exhaled, focusing. The world around him quieted. To his senses, the iron sword no longer felt lifeless—it was as though it breathed, pulsing faintly like a living creature. And just as he could cut through the flesh of a beast, he knew he could cut through this, too.
Without hesitation, Gojo swung. The air cracked from the sheer velocity of the strike. His blade moved like a flash of lightning—clean, absolute. With a single, perfect slash, the iron sword split neatly in two.
Gojo exhaled again, a long, calm breath, then turned away and began walking toward one of the nearby trees. The ground beneath his feet was scattered with fallen leaves, still trembling from the force of his earlier strike. Stopping before the tree, he lifted one leg and lightly kicked its trunk. Despite the gentle motion, the impact was tremendous—the whole tree shuddered violently as though struck by an enormous beast, and a cascade of leaves rained down from its branches.
Gojo raised his sword once more. The leaves floated all around him, glinting faintly in the afternoon light. Then, without pause, he began to swing—one slash after another, so fast the blade blurred. Yet not a single leaf was cut. Each leaf brushed against the razor edge of his sword, but none were harmed. They fell untouched, drifting softly to the ground.
A faint smile appeared on Gojo's lips. He had finally stepped into the realm he sought—the realm of hearing the breath of all things. The realm where the sword obeyed the will of the heart, where he could choose to cut—or not to cut—anything, even something as delicate as a falling leaf.
Gojo slowly slid his sword back into its sheath, the faint metallic click echoing through the quiet hilltop. A cool breeze brushed against his face, stirring the loose ends of his blindfold. He stood there for a moment, feeling the calm pulse of his surroundings before murmuring to himself, "Now, finally, I've reached the goal I was aiming for… the realm of iron cutting."
His lips curved slightly, though not into a smile—more a faint expression of satisfaction. "After one year of training since that fight with Ace, my physical strength has grown immensely. My swordsmanship has reached another level. Now I should be able to fight Master Kishimoto on equal grounds—just swordsmanship and raw strength alone."
He straightened his posture, confidence radiating quietly from his stance. "I should go now and request a match with him."
Once his mind was made up, Gojo didn't hesitate. He turned and left the training ground without a backward glance. There was nothing here he needed to pack—no possessions, no valuables, no attachments. Even if someone stole the few wooden dummies scattered around the area, it wouldn't matter. He could carve new ones from the surrounding forest anytime he wished.
The forest canopy parted gradually as Gojo descended the hill, sunlight slipping through in broken patterns across his path. Birds fluttered from the branches as he passed, the faint rhythm of his footsteps blending with the whisper of the wind. Before long, the dense green gave way to the open road leading back to the Cloverbook Village.
By the time Gojo reached the sword dojo, the afternoon sun was dipping westward, casting long, golden beams across the wooden floors inside. The familiar sound of clashing blades and shouted kiais filled the air. Students were scattered across the training hall, sparring in pairs under the rhythmic guidance of their instructor's commands.
Gojo stepped through the entrance, his presence barely noticed at first amid the commotion. His gaze swept briefly across the hall before settling on Yamashiro, who stood near the far end, speaking with a few students. Yamashiro's stance and demeanor made it clear—he wasn't just another practitioner. As the eldest and sole true disciple of Master Kishimoto, he carried himself with a sense of pride and calm authority.
The other students respected him greatly, but they also knew something more: when the time came, Yamashiro would inherit Kishimoto's legacy, becoming the successor to his master's teachings—the next owner of the dojo.
When Gojo approached, Yamashiro sensed his presence before he even spoke. Turning toward him with a faint smile, he said, "Oh, it's you, Gojo. What brings you here this time? Don't tell me—you're here to challenge Master again?"
Gojo met his gaze calmly, his tone even. "Yes. I want to challenge Master Kishimoto. Please inform him."
Yamashiro let out a soft chuckle, more out of habit than amusement, and nodded. "Very well. Come, follow me."
He turned to the group of students he had been conversing with and dismissed them with a few quiet words. The students bowed respectfully and returned to their training, while Yamashiro led Gojo down the wooden corridor. The echo of their footsteps followed them through the hall.
After a short walk, they stopped before a sliding door at the end of the corridor. From within, rhythmic sounds echoed through the wood—swish, swish, swish—the crisp, continuous sound of a sword slicing through air. The tempo was unbroken, each swing identical to the last, like the measured beat of a drum.
Yamashiro didn't need to say it; they both knew it was Master Kishimoto inside, immersed in his daily practice. He raised his hand and knocked a few times. The strikes of the sword paused for a heartbeat, then a firm, resonant voice came from inside.
"Come in."
It was unmistakably Kishimoto's voice—deep, calm, commanding.
Yamashiro slid the door open and stepped in first, followed closely by Gojo. The air inside the room was thick with a faint scent of wood and sweat, a familiar scent of relentless training. Sunlight poured through the paper windows, cutting soft lines across the tatami floor and the man who stood at the centre.
Kishimoto's upper body was bare, his muscles taut and scarred from countless battles. In his left hand, he gripped a sword mid-swing, the blade catching the light with every motion. His right side, however, was empty—his arm severed cleanly from the shoulder, long healed.
Kishimoto stopped his movement, his sharp gaze shifting toward Gojo. "So," he said, a faint glint in his eye, "you've come to challenge me again."
His tone held no surprise, only a quiet acknowledgment. Kishimoto knew Gojo's nature too well. The young man never came to the dojo for casual visits or conversation. He came only to test himself—to challenge, to measure the distance between his current self and the summit he sought.
In the past, Gojo's battles had begun with Yamashiro. He had faced him over and over, until the day he finally defeated the senior disciple. From that moment onward, his eyes had turned only toward Kishimoto himself—the master whose sword still commanded respect even with a single arm.
The last time Gojo had faced Master Kishimoto, he had fallen short—not by much, but enough to lose. His physical strength then had still been lacking, and more importantly, he had not yet attained the realm of swordsmanship known as the Breath of All Things. That gap, that subtle imperfection, had made all the difference.
Now, things were different.
Gojo's blindfolded gaze locked onto Kishimoto. His voice was calm, steady, and laced with quiet confidence. "Yes," he said, "I'm here to challenge you. And this time… I think you're going to lose."
The words carried no arrogance, only certainty. It was the same tone Gojo always used—direct, blunt, and stripped of any pretence. Kishimoto and Yamashiro both understood this well. To anyone else, Gojo's manner might have sounded insolent, but to them, it was simply Gojo being Gojo—someone who spoke exactly as he thought, without the need to dress his conviction in humility.
Kishimoto's expression didn't waver. He simply lowered his sword and replied, "Very well. If you're that confident, then let's see whether your strength matches your words."
Gojo gave a single nod, lips curving faintly. "Okay then. Let's go."
Without further discussion, the three of them—Kishimoto, Yamashiro, and Gojo—left the training room. The wooden floor creaked softly beneath their steps as they made their way through the dojo corridor and out into the open. Sunlight spilled through the wide doors, warming the polished floors as they passed.
They crossed the courtyard and walked toward the backyard of the dojo, a broad stretch of earth enclosed by tall bamboo and a few weathered trees. Beyond this area lay Kishimoto's modest home, and between them, an expanse of open ground that had long served as the master's private training field.
This was where Gojo had always fought—first Yamashiro, and later Kishimoto himself. The open air, the privacy, and the silence suited him. He didn't like crowds, nor did he want his techniques seen by curious onlookers. The fewer people who knew the true extent of his abilities, the better.
Still, despite his efforts, Gojo's reputation had already spread through the village. People whispered about him often—about the blindfolded swordsman who trained alone in the woods, who sold game of impossible size and value, who once hunted down two full-grown tigers single-handedly. It was a feat that even groups of seasoned hunters could not achieve.
To most villagers, Gojo was an enigma—quiet, reclusive, yet undeniably powerful. But to Kishimoto and Yamashiro, he was something more—a storm in the making, a man whose edge was still being honed.
As they reached the clearing, a faint wind stirred, rustling through the bamboo. The air grew still again, heavy with anticipation. Gojo stepped forward, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword, and the faintest trace of a smile appeared on his face.
This time, he thought, the result will be different.
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