Chapter 11: Jigoro: Just Another Day of Trying to Discourage Him
"Well, kid? How about it? The scenery in my hometown is quite nice, isn't it?" Kuwajima Jigoro, leaning on Akira for support, carefully stepped down from the carriage. He gazed out at the familiar landscape, his voice thick with nostalgia.
"It truly is," Akira replied honestly, his head turning to take in the panoramic view.
Despite its name, Peach Mountain wasn't covered in peach trees. Instead, it was a lush mix of broad-leafed trees whose names Akira didn't know. It was the cusp of spring turning into summer, a time when all of nature seemed to burst with unrestrained life. Under the warm glow of the setting sun, an endless sea of green leaves shimmered with a golden light, creating a stunning vista.
Jigoro's old home was situated at the very peak, affording them an open, sweeping view and air that felt crisp and clean in the lungs. Peach Mountain wasn't particularly tall; with Akira's exceptional eyesight, he could even make out the tiny figures of pedestrians moving through the small town nestled at its base.
However, rather than losing himself in the scenery, Akira found his thoughts drifting to a more pressing matter: when dinner would be served.
To avoid traveling after dark and risking an encounter with demons, they had made do with dry rations in the carriage for their midday meal. Though the food he had subsisted on for the better part of a decade was much the same, half a month of enjoying the delicacies provided by the Demon Slayer Corps had spoiled him. Returning to hardtack and jerky was a shock to his system.
He was getting a firsthand lesson in the old saying: it is easy to go from frugality to luxury, but difficult to return from whence you came.
The living necessities, arranged by Ubuyashiki Kagaya the day before, had already been delivered and set up. The staff had even taken the time to thoroughly clean the house. All Akira and Jigoro had to do was move in—a proof of the Corps' incredibly thoughtful service.
Kagaya had originally intended to assign a few servants to look after Jigoro, but the fiercely self-reliant old man had refused. He felt he was unworthy of such treatment, believing that since he could no longer fight on the front lines, he shouldn't be a burden.
This had prompted a fair bit of internal grumbling from Akira.
Fortunately, thanks to a lifetime of martial discipline and the aid of his prosthetic leg, Jigoro's daily activities weren't an issue, even if he couldn't move with his former swiftness. As for Akira taking care of him, the stubborn old man would never allow a child to wait on him. Letting Akira help him up now and then was already a significant moment of closeness between master and disciple. He certainly wouldn't demand the boy stay by his side constantly.
After all, Jigoro was determined to give Akira a complete and proper childhood, hoping he would wait a few more years before joining the bloody business of demon slaying.
Akira mused to himself, 'A complete childhood, huh? I get the feeling that involves more than just playing happily...'
"Alright, you go check if your bedroom is to your liking," Jigoro instructed gently, deftly pulling his arm from Akira's supportive grasp. He started toward the kitchen, pointing out the location of Akira's room as he went. "The person in charge is still down in the town. If you need anything changed, they can do it on the spot. They're leaving tomorrow."
"Okay."
Stepping inside, Akira found a simple, practical room. There was a large bed, a small table with a matching stool, and a wardrobe. This would be his home for the foreseeable future.
All the essentials were present, and the quality of the furniture seemed quite good. There were no decorations, but Akira didn't care for such things. In fact, the lack of flashy items made the space feel more comfortable and calming to him.
As he approached the bed, he noticed the quilt still held a faint warmth, a clear sign it had been aired out in the sun during the day. Opening the wardrobe, he found several sets of casual clothes, all tailored perfectly to his size. Though the colors were simple black and white combinations, it happened to be the exact style he preferred and had worn during his time at the Corps headquarters.
Akira could only marvel once again at how deeply thoughtful Kagaya's arrangements were.
After a brief inspection, he turned and headed for the kitchen. It absolutely wasn't because he distrusted Jigoro's cooking skills; he was simply hungry and wanted to see how much longer it would be until dinner.
As it turned out, while Jigoro's cooking couldn't compare to the master chefs at the Demon Slayer Corps, it was still excellent. Dinner was not only delicious but also served in enormous portions that guaranteed he was more than full.
In Jigoro's words: "You're all skin and bones, Akira; you need to bulk up." "This is the age for growing; you can't afford to go hungry." "What good were those dry rations on the road? You need proper meals."
Watching the little old man, who usually did nothing but bicker with him, suddenly radiate such a powerful 'motherly' aura, Akira found himself completely overwhelmed. He could only lower his head and eat ravenously, shoveling rice and meat into his mouth.
At the very least, he couldn't let this stubborn old man see the stinging heat that was building behind his eyes.
Considering both his lives, Akira was over thirty years old, and he hadn't been cared for with such simple, earnest affection since Kanzaki Keizan had treated him like a beloved grandson.
In his previous life, the relatives who took him in had provided food and shelter, allowing him to complete his compulsory education. He had never asked for, nor expected, any more care than that.
In this life, his existence before the age of four had been a numb struggle for survival. He had experienced the feeling of being cherished for just over two years with Keizan, only to end up wandering alone once more. Although he'd had companions at the temple, he was one of the older children and had mostly played the role of a caretaker. The head priest and the other monks, including Gyomei, had been kind, but their care wasn't as personal or intimate. It felt more like the detached kindness a human might show to a stray animal.
That kindness was good, of course, but it wasn't the same as this. It didn't carry the warmth that touched his very soul, a warmth he found in the nagging of the white-haired old man before him.
Burying his emotions in his rice bowl, Akira couldn't help but think that in a few months, when he went to pay his respects at Keizan's grave, he could tell him about Kuwajima Jigoro. He could let his grandfather-by-choice know that his grandson was no longer someone without affection in his life.
His thoughts then shifted. He wondered if Ubuyashiki had dealt with that bastard, Kaigaku. He would need to confirm it sometime.
But now that he was here, it didn't matter. Even if that guy was lucky enough to have survived, Akira would never allow him to torment this kind, lovely old man.
The next morning, Akira's internal clock woke him at its usual precise time, a fact that brought Kuwajima Jigoro a sharp sense of defeat.
He had hoped the boy would sleep in. That way, he could use the excuse, "If you want to learn a Breathing Style, you must wake up early," as his first attempt to discourage him. In Jigoro's mind, what child didn't love to laze in bed?
Yet, here Akira was, awake even slightly earlier than him. Jigoro's grand plan had failed before it could even be applied.
After they finished breakfast and a brief warm-up to aid digestion, Jigoro, despite his deep reluctance, took his wooden sword and stood in the center of the open space outside their home to begin the lesson.
No matter his personal feelings, his official identity now was that of a Cultivator, and Akira was his disciple. Teaching the Breathing Style was his responsibility; he couldn't let his private wishes interfere with his duty.
This only strengthened his resolve. He had to find a way to make Akira voluntarily suggest delaying his study of the Breathing Style for a few more years.
Akira had a rough idea of what the old man was thinking, but there was little he could do about it. Jigoro possessed a strange persistence when it came to the oddest things. As long as it didn't actually hinder his learning, he supposed it was fine.
"Listen up, you brat," Jigoro's voice was stern and carried the weight of his experience. "Thunder Breathing is the strongest of the five main Breathing Styles when it comes to instantaneous explosive power. Its entire key lies in..."
The entire morning was spent on theory. Jigoro explained everything from the basic breathing rhythm of a Breathing Style and the key points of Total Concentration Breathing, to the core essence of Thunder Breathing and the unique characteristics of its Six Forms.
Despite it being a purely theoretical lecture with no practical demonstration, Akira was somewhat puzzled as to why Jigoro was holding a wooden sword—and why he insisted on standing directly in the sun the entire time.
But Jigoro was the teacher. Akira, whose understanding of Breathing Styles was limited to the flashy special effects he'd seen in the anime from his past life, would never question a professional who had dedicated decades to mastering Thunder Breathing.
Besides, Jigoro kept glancing at him from time to time during the lecture. Perhaps this strange arrangement truly held some unique, hidden purpose.
Akira's state of focused listening, however, unintentionally caused Jigoro's discouragement plan to 'die in the cradle' once again.
Standing perfectly still, soaking in the sun for an entire morning while listening to dry, complex theory—in Jigoro's experience, no child on earth could remain focused for that long, let alone maintain their posture.
If Akira had shown even a moment of weakness, Jigoro's wooden sword would have found its purpose. He had planned a strike with just the right amount of force—enough to startle the boy, but not enough to cause any real harm.
'If one time isn't enough, I'll do it a few more times,'Jigoro had thought to himself.'I'm sure the brat will eventually give up on his own.'
But Akira listened attentively the entire time, his stance perfectly steady. By the end of the morning, though his legs were trembling faintly from the strain, he hadn't swayed or leaned to one side even once.
Kuwajima Jigoro sighed internally. This disciple is too good, which is its own kind of trouble...
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