I climbed the mountain path alone.
The air grew thinner with every step, sharp and cold in my lungs. Mist rolled across the ground, curling around the trees like spirits. Branches creaked softly above me. Somewhere in the distance, water trickled down rocks.
Then I saw it.
A quiet house, hidden behind thick pine trees. Old stone and dark wood. No smoke from the chimney. No sound of life. It looked less like a home and more like a grave that had forgotten how to decay.
I stood in front of the door, my heart pounding. This was my last hope.
Haruto's words echoed in my head.
"He doesn't take students anymore. If he tells you to leave, leave. Junjiro Kanzaki doesn't teach mercy."
I raised my fist and knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Footsteps moved behind the door. Then a deep, weathered voice.
"Go away."
I swallowed. "Please. My name is Ryo Tsukihara. I want to become a Demon Slayer."
A pause.
Then—
"I don't take students."
His voice was colder than the wind.
"No one leaves my training alive."
The words landed like stones in my stomach. But I didn't back away.
"I don't care," I said. "I've trained in the way of the sword since I was a child. But that's not enough. I saw a demon with my own eyes. I watched it kill. I couldn't stop it."
Silence.
Not even the trees moved.
Then the footsteps retreated.
The door stayed shut.
I stood there a while, unsure if I should knock again. But eventually, I turned away.
I didn't leave.
I made a small camp under a tree nearby. Just far enough to not be seen. Just close enough that he'd know I was still there.
Days passed.
Junjiro never came out.
But I stayed.
Each morning I trained with what I had—sword swings, breathing drills, stretches. My body screamed. My wrists burned. But I kept moving.
I studied the way the wind moved through the trees. I followed the shadows in the forest. Sometimes, I caught glimpses of Junjiro walking the path behind his house—moving with no sound, like a ghost.
I tried to copy the way he walked. The way he breathed.
At night, I sat by the fire and stared into the flames, thinking of my family.
Mother's laughter. Hina's bright voice. Father's strong aura.
And blood.
So much blood.
I clenched my fists. I wouldn't run from it anymore.
The rain came one afternoon, without warning.
It soaked through my tent. Mud seeped into my shoes. My hands trembled from the cold, but I still trained.
Strike. Step. Breathe.
Again.
And again.
If I rested now, I might never move again.
High up in the old house, behind a window fogged with mist, Junjiro watched me. His eyes were like stone.
He didn't speak.
But he didn't look away.
"Foolish boy," he muttered.
The next morning, something changed.
A wooden box sat beside my camp, dripping wet from the storm.
I knelt beside it. There was no note. No name. But I knew who had left it.
Inside was an old journal. The cover was cracked leather. The title was burned into the front in fading ink: Foundations of Breathing.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
Diagrams. Hand-drawn illustrations. Notes on posture, movement, and breath. It was a guide—a real one—written by someone who knew how to fight.
The first few chapters explained Total Concentration Breathing. How to time your breaths with your attacks. How to fill your body with oxygen to move faster, hit harder, last longer.
At the very end was a strange note.
"Split the boulder."
Underneath, a small hand-drawn map led into the forest.
I stared at those three words.
Split the boulder?
It sounded like a joke.
But I remembered the demon. How its skin didn't tear. How even trained swordsmen struggled to wound it.
No—this wasn't a joke.
It was a challenge.
I followed the map.
The forest grew darker the deeper I walked. Trees twisted together, blocking out the sky.
Then I saw it.
A massive boulder, green with moss and cracked from age. Taller than any human. Wider than 7 men standing side by side.
I walked around it slowly. Placed a hand against the cold stone.
Then I swung my blade.
It rang like a bell and bounced off. A thin scratch remained—barely visible.
I clenched my teeth.
Then I breathed.
Inhale. Hold. Strike. Exhale.
I tried again.
And again.
And again.
The blade never sank in. But I kept training beside the boulder.
I'd seen what demons could do. If I couldn't split this rock, I'd never split their necks.
Life on the mountain was quiet.
I trapped rabbits and caught fish from a stream. Learned which roots dulled pain. Which berries I should avoid.
Every day I trained.
Every night I read the journal by firelight, tracing the diagrams with my finger. Whispering the breathing counts to myself.
Inhale. One. Two. Three.
Hold.
Strike.
One night, I collapsed beside the boulder. The stars peeked through the clouds. My chest rose and fell slowly.
Then something strange happened.
I dreamed.
But not as myself.
I stood in a forest, holding a katana with worn hands. My grip was firm. My stance, calm. Before me stood a demon—snarling, drooling, claws twitching.
But I didn't flinch.
My breath came slow. Deep. Controlled.
The demon lunged.
And I moved.
Faster than light.
The blade danced. My feet barely touched the ground. Every movement was perfect—fluid. Measured. My heart beat steady as a drum.
Strike. Dodge. Turn. Cut.
I didn't see the final blow. But I remembered everything else.
The forms. The angles. The rhythm of the breath.
When I woke, I sat up fast.
My shirt clung to my skin with sweat. The fire was out.
But my mind burned bright.
I grabbed the journal and wrote everything I could remember. Every step. Every swing. Every breath.
Then I tried it.
Slowly, at first.
Then faster.
Again.
And again.
Unseen behind the trees, Junjiro watched me. His arms crossed, his eyes quiet.
He didn't speak.
But something in him shifted.
A memory, maybe. A scar.
He turned away, eyes closing.
But he didn't tell me to stop.
And he didn't tell me to leave.
To Be Continued…