As the days passed, Muichiro gradually gained strength. The pain no longer hampered every movement, although sharp turns or deep breaths still caused sharp flashes in the chest and arms. He patiently followed all of Usopp's instructions: he drank bitter decoctions, changed bandages, and did light exercises to restore mobility to his fingers and wrists.
But he wanted more.
He had to learn to walk again.
"Today," Muichiro said firmly in the morning when Usopp brought breakfast.
He raised his eyebrows:
"What's today?"
"I'll take the first steps."
Usopp scratched the back of his head thoughtfully, looked at Muichiro's thin figure, still pale, with dark circles under his eyes.
"Are you sure? The body has not fully recovered yet..."
"The longer I wait, the harder it will be to start," Muichiro interrupted. His voice sounded calm, but there was an unyielding determination in his eyes. "I can't lie down all the time."
Usopp sighed, but didn't argue.
"Okay. But I'll be there. If you feel like you can't stand it, tell me right away. Got it?"
Muichiro nodded.
Rising with difficulty, he swung his legs off the bed and lowered them to the wooden floor. The wood was cool, almost alien to the touch. He took a deep breath, focused on the sensations in his legs, and slowly, using his hands, began to rise.
The first seconds are dizzying. Dark spots swam before my eyes. Muichiro froze, gritting his teeth, waiting for the world to stop rocking. Usopp immediately stepped closer, ready to pick him up, but Muichiro stopped him with a gesture.
"It's... okay."
Finally, he straightened up. His legs were shaking and his muscles were burning from the unaccustomed exertion, but he was standing.
I took the first step.
His step was short and unsteady, as if he were a child again, just learning to walk. The floor seemed too hard underfoot, then it suddenly sank like quicksand. Muichiro tensed, trying to keep his balance, and took a second step. Third.
On the fourth step, the knee trembled. He staggered, but steadied himself—only leaned heavily against the wall with his hand.
"Take your time," Usopp advised quietly, without taking a step back. "Slowly. Feel every step."
Muichiro closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. Inhale is a step. Exhale — one more step. Gradually, the rhythm built up: unhurried, cautious, but confident.
He walked five steps. Ten. I reached the window and grabbed the frame to take a break.
Behind the glass, the village of Syrup spread out — houses with thatched roofs, narrow streets, and green gardens. Everything was so peaceful, so alive. And he could see it again, not lying down, but standing on his feet.
"It worked," Muichiro whispered, not quite believing it himself.
Usopp smiled:
"Of course it worked. You're as stubborn as the devil."
Muichiro smiled faintly in response. My legs were still shaking, and fatigue was throbbing in my chest, but a long—forgotten feeling of victory was burning inside.
He took his first steps.
This means that he will be able to go on.
After a few days of recovery, Muichiro began to think more and more often that he remembered almost nothing about himself. Names, events, even his own age disappeared into the fog after waking up. He remembered the battles, he remembered the blade in his hand, he remembered the cold of death— but he could not say how many years he lived after that moment.
One morning, while changing the bandages, Usopp suddenly asked:
"Listen, how old are you anyway?"
Muichiro froze. The question hit exactly into the void—into the very gap in his memory that he had not yet been able to fill. He spoke slowly:
"I don't know."
Usopp raised his eyebrows in surprise:
"At all?"
"I remember the battles. I remember holding a sword. But how old I am... I can't remember."
Usopp rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then suddenly jumped up and ran out of the room. A few minutes later, he returned with a battered book and a couple of sheets of paper.
"I have an idea! Let's try to restore something. Describe yourself before you were injured—what you looked like, what you were wearing, what habits you remember."
Muichiro concentrated.
"The hair is... long, dark. The eyes are gray. He was dressed in black haori over white clothes. There's a nichirin blade on his belt..." he stammered, remembering the details. — I often touched the hilt of my sword when I was thinking. He loved the silence. And... I think I ate a lot of sweets."
Usopp wrote it down quickly, asking clarifying questions from time to time. When the list was ready, he took out another notebook—his old travel diary—and began flipping through the pages.
"Let's see... the description fits a teenager. Height, build — clearly not an adult. But the habit of sweets and some absent-mindedness..." he looked up at Muichiro. "I think you're somewhere between 11 and 14."
Muichiro frowned:
"How can I know for sure?"
"There is one way," Usopp smiled slyly. "Let's go."
He led Muichiro outside, to a small mirrored pond on the outskirts of the village. The water was calm, reflecting the morning sun. Muichiro saw his reflection for the first time in a long time.
A boy stood in front of him, thin, with delicate features, with long dark hair partially hiding his pale face. The gray eyes looked serious, almost stern, but there was a childish confusion in their depths.
"You look... twelve," Usopp said softly."Maybe a little younger. But definitely not older."
Muichiro stared at the reflection, trying to find familiar features in it. Something inside responded‑not a memory, but rather a feeling: yes, it's me.
"Twelve," he repeated, as if trying the word out. "So I'm twelve."
Usopp slapped him on the shoulder:
"Well, that's progress! Now you have at least that."
Muichiro nodded. Age is a tiny fragment of the past, but it felt like the first real clue. Now that he knew at least that much, he could begin to piece together the rest of his story.
A few weeks later, when Muichiro's strength finally returned, he began to languish inactivity. Lying in bed, taking decoctions, and taking measured walks around the village were all necessary, but my soul was eager for the real thing.
One morning, he approached Usopp with a request:
"I need a bokken."
Usopp raised his eyebrows in surprise:
"Bokken? A wooden katana? Why?"
"I have to train. My muscles remember the movements. If I don't start now, it will be more difficult later."
Usopp rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He understood that this was not just a whim for Muichiro. It's a way to get yourself back.
"Okay. I have a suitable board. Let's do it."
By evening, the bokken was ready — not a masterpiece of craftsmanship, but durable, well-balanced, with a smooth surface. Muichiro took it in his hands and froze for a moment, feeling the weight, the shape, the location of the center of gravity. His fingers found the right position on the hilt.
"It's... familiar."
The next morning, as soon as the sun touched the roofs of Syrup village, Muichiro walked away from the house for a few meters. He got into a basic stance, raised his bokken in front of him, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
And then, as if a dam had burst, memories flooded in.
Muichiro started to move.
Slowly, carefully at first, checking how the body responds. Then — more confidently, allowing the muscles to remember what the soul knew. Punches, swerves, turns, everything came back, as if he had never stopped training.
The bokken whistled through the air, cutting through the morning silence. A step is a wave. A turn is a blow. Another step is protection. The movements merged into a single flow, into a dance in which he put all his concentration.
Usopp was watching from the corner of the house. At first, he wanted to go over and check if everything was okay, but he froze, mesmerized. In front of him was no longer a weak teenager who had barely gotten back on his feet, but a warrior — collected, precise, immersed in his art.
Half an hour later, Muichiro stopped. His chest was heaving, sweat was streaming down his face, but there was an unusual clarity in his eyes. He lowered the bokken and ran his palm over the wooden surface, as if thanking her for her help.
"It worked," he whispered. "My body remembers.."
Usopp came closer:
"You looked… like a real samurai."
Muichiro smiled faintly:
"This is just the beginning. I have to remember every move until I can fight like before."
He raised his bokken again, took a stance, and started over again—this time with even more determination.
Every morning now began the same way: dawn, courtyard, bokken in his hands and a dance of memories. His body grew stronger, his memory returned, and with it a sense of wholeness, as if he were gradually reassembling himself.
And with each stroke of the wooden sword, he was getting closer to who he once was.
The morning mist was spreading over the ground, shrouding the courtyard in a light haze. Muichiro stood in a fighting stance, clutching a bokken in his hands. He had already recovered the basic movements of the Breath of Mist—smooth, sinuous strokes, deceptive maneuvers, swift lunges. But today‑ something was pulling him on.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on the rhythm of his breathing. Fragments flashed through my mind: dazzling rays cutting through the darkness; smooth, almost dancing movements; a feeling of incredible power born from the unity of the sun and the moon.
"It's... not a Fog."
Muichiro took a deep breath, and suddenly, like a key turning in a lock, a flash flashed before his inner eye:
A powerful vertical strike capable of cleaving a demon in two.
A series of lightning strikes, turning the blade into a whirlwind of steel.
His body reacted on its own.
The bokken shot up, describing an arc he hadn't practiced. It was an unfamiliar movement, but it was the right one. Nerves remembered. The soul remembered.
He shifted to a different stance, and his movements became sharper and angularer, but no less deadly. A step, a turn, a blow—and another blow, even faster, even more fiercely. The wooden sword whistled through the air, slicing through the fog like a real blade.
Usopp, who was watching from behind the door, froze. Just yesterday, Muichiro moved like a swordsman—smoothly, almost weightlessly. But now…
"What is it?.. "What is it?" he whispered.
Muichiro's movements became almost inhumanly fast. He spun, jumped, and struck at impossible angles, sometimes smoothly, like fog, sometimes sharply, like a ray of sunlight. His breathing became deeper, more rhythmic, synchronizing with every movement.
Finally, he stopped. His chest was heaving, sweat was streaming down his face, but there was an unusual fire in his eyes—a mixture of amazement and triumph.
"I remembered..." he gasped. "2 more styles"
Usopp cautiously approached:
"Did you... use two styles at the same time?"
Muichiro slowly lowered his bokken, looking at his hands as if he had never seen them before.
"They... complement each other. The fog hides it. The sun is beating. The moon cuts. Together..." he tightened his fingers on the hilt, "together they are stronger."
Usopp scratched his head:
"It sounds like a recipe for a super punch."
Muichiro smiled faintly. A picture was gradually forming in his head: fragments of memories, techniques, sensations. He still didn't remember everything, but now he knew that his power wasn't limited to one style.
"I need to train," he said firmly. "To combine them. Make them your own."
The morning light filtered through the leaves, scattering across the grass in a mottled pattern. Muichiro was standing in the center of a small wasteland behind Usopp's house, clutching a bokken. He had already worked out the basic bundles of Mist Breathing, remembered the fragments of the Sun breathing technique that Tanjiro had shown during the training of Hashira and the Moon, which his ancestor Kokushibo had used, but one was not enough for him.
It was necessary to check how these styles work in combat.
He turned to Usopp, who was sitting on a fallen log, polishing his slingshot.
"Usopp," Muichiro's voice was steady, but there was an undisguised urgency in his eyes, "I need to fight someone."
Usopp looked up, startled slightly:
"Uh, what are you talking about?"
"You. With me. Get some practice."
Usopp immediately jumped up, waving his arms:
"No‑ no‑ no, no! I'm not a fighter! I'm the shooter! I'm long-distance, you know? Close combat is not my thing!"
Muichiro took a step closer, not looking away.:
"You don't have to win. Just... keep moving. Deflect the blows. I won't use my full strength."
"But I don't even have a sword!"Usopp took a step back, looking around as if he was looking for an escape route.
"I have two bokken. One is for you."
Usopp froze. Muichiro took out a second wooden sword from his back and held it out. The silence hung between them, tense, almost palpable.
Finally, Usopp sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and muttered:
"Oh well… But if I suddenly faint from fear, don't be surprised."
Muichiro smiled faintly:
"You won't fall."
They stood opposite each other. Usopp awkwardly squeezed his bokken, clearly not knowing how to hold it properly. Muichiro took a low stance, the blade at his hip.
"Here we go," he said softly.
Muichiro's first strike was slow, almost demonstrative — he wanted to give Usopp time to react. He swung his sword in panic, barely managing to block, and immediately retreated, almost tripping.
"So!" Muichiro paused. "You're too tense. Relax your wrist. Hold the blade not as a weapon, but as an extension of the arm."
Usopp swallowed, shifted his sword, and tried again. This time, the block came out a little more confident.
Muichiro began to pick up the pace. The blows became sharper, the movements became faster. He didn't attack seriously, but he forced Usopp to move, to find balance, to learn to feel the distance.
After a few minutes, Usopp was already breathing heavily, but excitement appeared in his eyes. He began to answer, clumsily, but more boldly each time.
"That's it," Muichiro approved. "Now try to counterattack."
Usopp gathered himself, took a step forward and delivered a sweeping blow. Muichiro easily sidestepped, gently slicing his blade from below, causing him to lose his balance.
"You're swinging too wide. Reduce the amplitude."
Usopp snorted.:
"You're just like a teacher!"
"I am the teacher," Muichiro replied calmly, taking his stance again. "For myself."
He launched a new series of attacks, now combining techniques. The smooth movements of the Mist flowed into the sharp lunges of the Sun, and then into the swift, almost dancing strokes of the Moon. Usopp barely had time to react, but gradually began to catch the rhythm.
At one point, he even laughed.:
"You know, it's... fun!"
Muichiro froze for a moment, then nodded.:
Good. So you're ready."
He accelerated abruptly. Now it wasn't a lesson—it was a training session. Usopp didn't back down anymore—he parried, dodged, even tried to respond. The bokken clattered against each other, raising clouds of wood dust.
When they finally stopped, they were both sweating, but there were smiles on their faces.
Usopp leaned on his sword, breathing heavily:
"Phew… I thought you were going to kill me!"
Muichiro lowered his blade, looking into the distance where the sun was already sinking.
"thanks. It was necessary."
Usopp waved his hand:
"Come on! I promised to be there for you. And if you're already training, at least it's good!"
Muichiro nodded. At that moment, he realized that even in a strange world, without a past and with a vague future, he was not alone.
And that was important, too.
The night was quiet. The moon hung high, flooding the village of Syrup with silver light. Muichiro stood at the door of Usopp's house, staring into the darkness of the forest on the outskirts.
Usopp, who followed, rubbed his shoulders shiveringly — despite the warm night, the air was getting chilly in the predawn hour.
"Are you serious? Now?" There was concern in Usopp's voice. "Can we at least wait until morning?"
Muichiro slowly turned to him. In the moonlight, his gray eyes seemed almost transparent, as if they saw something beyond the ordinary gaze.
"We need to test our strength. I'm going hunting," he said calmly, but with a firmness that brooked no argument.
"Hunting?" Usopp involuntarily stepped forward. "Just a minute! You've only just recovered! Besides... who are you going to hunt in this forest? There aren't even any wild boars here!"
Muichiro tilted his head slightly, as if listening to something invisible.
"It doesn't matter. The main thing is movement. Checking the reaction."
He had already taken a step towards the forest when Usopp called out to him.:
"Wait! Let me come with you! You never know what..."
"There's no need, don't worry." Muichiro didn't even turn around.
Usopp clenched his fists, but he knew it was useless to argue. When Muichiro made a decision, there was no stopping him.
"Okay..." sighed Usopp. "But if you don't come back before dawn, I'm going to look for you. And don't you dare argue!"
Muichiro nodded slightly and disappeared into the shadows of the trees.
The forest was quiet—too quiet. Not a rustle of an animal, not a cry of a night bird. Muichiro walked slowly, but his every step was measured, his every movement cautious. He wasn't looking for prey. He was looking for a boundary.
"Transparent world..." he repeated in his mind. "If it exists, I have to see it."
He stopped in a small clearing, closed his eyes, and concentrated on breathing. Scraps of knowledge surfaced in his memory: a technique that allowed him to see the hidden threads of the world, to distinguish demons even in human form. But what he needed now was to see the very fabric of reality.
Breath. Exhale. One more time.
His consciousness began to change. The world seemed to slow down. The sounds became deeper, the smells became sharper. He felt goosebumps run over his skin—not from the cold, but from something else, almost mystical.
And then he saw.
Thin, barely noticeable threads permeated the space. They stretched from tree to tree, wrapped around the grass, curled around his legs. It was a Transparent world, a hidden side of reality that only a select few could see.
Muichiro took a step forward, and the threads trembled as if reacting to his presence. He held out his hand, and they parted, making way for him.
"I see..." he thought with cold delight. "I really see it."
But with this discovery came an understanding: this world is not his. The rules are different here. And in order to survive, he needs not just to remember the techniques of the past, but to learn how to use them in a new reality.
He closed his eyes, severing his connection with the Transparent World. When he looked in front of him again, everything was as before—an ordinary forest, an ordinary night.
But he knew he could see more now.
He returned to Usopp's house before dawn. Usopp was sitting on the porch, obviously not sleeping all night. When he saw Muichiro, he jumped up:
"Well?! How did everything go? Did you find anyone?"
Muichiro stopped in front of him, looked into his eyes, and calmly replied:
"Yes. I found it."
Usopp breathed a sigh of relief.:
"Phew… You scared me so much! What kind of beast was that?"
Muichiro smiled, almost imperceptibly.
"It wasn't a beast hunt. It was a self-hunt."
Usopp frowned, clearly not understanding, but then waved his hand.:
"You know, sometimes you talk so mysteriously that I want to throw something at you. But... okay. The main thing is that you're back."
Muichiro nodded. He didn't say everything. He didn't mention the Transparent World, the threads of reality, or the fact that his vision had now changed forever.