A kettle of tea simmered on the stove, curling steam filling the wooden cabin with a rare touch of warmth.
Sakonji Urokodaki knelt in silence, carefully unfolding a letter written in Giyu's messy, claw-like handwriting.
Giyu was sentimental—cold on the outside, warm within. He had talent with a blade, but his penmanship was barely passable.
"Master Urokodaki, I hope this finds you well."
"With missions piling up near year's end, I'm unable to return. Please pay respects to Sabito, Makomo, and the others on my behalf."
"Let them know I've never stopped training. I've slain 137 demons so far—may that bring them some peace."
Just two hundred words, yet they carried all his thoughts. Urokodaki read to the end—
"Please take care of yourself. Wishing you continued mastery. Forgive the brevity. —Giyu Tomioka"
He closed the letter and sat for a long while.
Shinsuke, Fukuda, and the others had followed Roy deeper into Mt. Sagiri. Sabito and Makomo, noticing the crow, silently returned to stay beside the old man.
"Giyu's done well. Worthy of the Water Hashira title." Sabito read the letter, recalling how the tearful boy had grown into the Demon Slayer Corps' backbone. He felt immeasurable pride.
"137 demons, 137 letters. Giyu really misses Master." Makomo nodded, then asked, "Hey, do you think Master will tell Giyu about Reiichiro?"
Her eyes sparkled. "I really want to see if he drops his jaw when he finds out."
Three sets of Ten Thousand Swings daily—Reiichiro wasn't human.
Sabito knew what she meant. She just wanted to see Giyu lose his cool. But even if he learned the truth, Giyu would probably just nod blankly and pretend not to care.
"He wouldn't."
"At most, he'd take a glance."
"Besides..." Sabito watched Urokodaki stare at the letter. "Master wouldn't tell him."
"The Corps walks on the edge of death. One slip and you're gone. Master wouldn't want Giyu burdened."
Sure enough, Urokodaki said nothing, didn't even write back. He just gently placed the letter in a small wooden box by his pillow. A crack revealed a stack of them already inside...
Howling wind blew flurries past the windows.
He closed the box. His back seemed more hunched than before. After standing silently for a moment, he opened the door and stepped outside.
"Reiichiro, come with me."
It was just past 4 p.m. Roy had completed his three sessions of Ten Thousand Swings for the day and was planning two thousand more when Urokodaki called. He sheathed his blade and followed, through the forest to a clearing.
What he saw: a dozen snow-covered burial mounds of various sizes. Urokodaki stood before them, lighting an oil lamp at the small altar and offering a silent prayer.
"Year's end is near. Come pay respects to your senior brothers and sisters."
They were gone now, buried beneath the snow. The sky their blanket, the earth their bed. Perhaps it was a form of freedom.
But...
Roy looked at the spirits of Sabito, Makomo, and the others standing behind Urokodaki. He remained silent for a moment, then smiled.
"I'll pass."
He spun his blade in a flourish—carefree and defiant.
"I like celebrating the new year. When I've avenged them, I'll bring a jug of wine and drink by their graves. I'm sure they wouldn't mind."
A chill wind spiraled through.
A dozen ghostly eyes turned his way. Shinsuke and Fukuda felt their throats tighten and tears welled up.
"Reiichiro, you..."
Who'd blame you? Who would dare?
Makomo sniffled and tugged Sabito's sleeve.
Behind his fox mask, Sabito stared at Roy, then looked beyond his shoulder into the sky, saying nothing. As snow filled the air, the old man nodded wordlessly.
"Deal. I've got two thousand swings left."
Roy slung his blade over his shoulder, stepped through the snow and staring eyes, and returned to the forest.
Soon—
A single slash split a four-meter log in half.
[Swordsmanship +30...]
Ten Thousand Swings: complete.
"Hoo..." His breath crystallized in the cold.
He returned to the cabin, ate dinner, climbed onto the bed.
Tonight, more ghosts squeezed into the room to sleep beside him, not just Makomo.
Roy noticed, smiled faintly, closed his eyes, and slept soundly till morning.
A familiar falling sensation pulled him back—
A single "Young Master!" shattered the dream and snapped him awake.
Gone was the snow country. No more chimes or clocks. Roy blinked groggily as Wutong placed a breakfast tray beside him.
"Not like home, I'm afraid. Fresh ingredients are scarce here. Please make do."
Wutong clearly hated the food at Heavens Arena. He could starve, sure—but not the young master. He nearly slit the chef's throat that morning during pickup.
"What time is it?"
"Five-thirty a.m."
'I actually slept that long?' Roy frowned, climbed from bed, and started his morning run.
Breakfast could wait. It wouldn't run away. Worst case, microwave it later. Morning jogs couldn't be skipped.
He took the elevator straight down and began running laps around Heavens Arena. Upstairs, shadows appeared at windows, following him with varied expressions.
In Room 1981, a pale-eyed boy sleeping in a water tank suddenly opened his eyes.
In Room 1989, a boy with silver-gray hair down to his waist stood behind a floor-to-ceiling window, staring down at him. Twin embers of Nen lit up in his pupils, burning with battlelust.
This was the 200th floor—the realm of Nen users.
Yun Gu was doing a one-handed handstand, trying to gather Ren into his palm and push off into a jump. On the couch nearby, a flat-chested, twin-tailed loli enjoyed a massage in complete ease.
Even in a city not yet awake, many had already begun their routines.
Roy didn't use silent steps. He ran a normal ten kilometers at regular pace, returned upstairs for breakfast, and found several challenge invites waiting.
"Young Master, Arena just sent word. Hwashit Dourou has formally issued a challenge."
As Wutong served breakfast, he organized and reported the rest: "Also 'Meat Grinder' Harrison, 'God Gun' Guy, and 'Ninja' Masaru Kikuta... they all seem to be lining up to snipe you."
"No Yun Gu?"
"None."
"Then accept them all. Let's start by butchering the worst ones."