"The sword is an extension of the arm…"
"As they say: an extra inch of reach, an extra inch of strength. Where your hands and feet can't get, a blade takes their place."
"Your grip is wrong—keep the back straight with a slight forward lean, set your stance, eyes level with the tip so they form a line…"
"When chopping downward, put the force into the edge to maximize cut power…"
"No—raise your hands a little higher; where's your elbow frame…"
"I said look forward; I didn't say stick your chin out for a thrust…"
"Down-chops must be straight—like that you'll snap the blade…"
"One—down chop. Put some force in it…"
"Two—again…"
"Three… four… If you haven't hit two thousand before sunset, no dinner!"
In a clearing deep in Mt. Sagiri, broken stumps lay scattered. Urokodaki Sakonji corrected Roy's stance, footwork, and cutting angle over and over. At last, after watching for a bit, he dropped the day's assignment—two thousand swings—and vanished.
By Shinsuke and Fukuda's reckoning, a beginner who can swing a thousand times without collapsing has already "made it."
But two thousand… "Rōichirō's in for it," they muttered.
"Master's sulking," Makomo said from atop a tall white birch, leaning over as Roy practiced "iai cuts"—one stroke after another. The boy was calm and methodical, without the slightest complaint at the "sudden extra load."
Almost too calm…
"That's not sulking," Sabito corrected. "He's never had a student as exceptional as Rōichirō."
Ten days to grasp the essence of Breathing—unheard of talent. Focused behind his fox mask, Sabito watched Roy's blade; for a second his eyes blurred, and he saw little Giyu—thick black hair, extraordinary talent—enviable then, as now.
"How many cuts did Giyu-nii manage at the start?" Makomo asked.
"Giyu… barely eight hundred. Master physically guided the last two hundred with him," Sabito said with a smile. "But later his stamina soared. At his peak he completed three 'ten-thousand swings.' From that day, Master took him to the waterfall to start Breathing training."
"Three? I only did two…" Makomo pouted.
"You're already great. That clown Fukuda's peak was only eighteen hundred-something…" Shinsuke chimed in, cheerfully exposing his friend.
"And you're better how?" Fukuda neck-cranked Shinsuke with a choke. "Trash—ten more swings and you won't shut up!"
"Ten more is still more…" Shinsuke shot back, flicking a cheap shot at Fukuda's groin. They rolled and cursed, stirring little eddies of cold wind…
Sabito ignored their crudeness. His eyes stayed locked on the boy below, curious how far a raw beginner could go.
"At least not worse than Tanjiro," Roy thought as he chopped. In the original, Tanjiro's first-day tally was one and a half "ten-thousand swings," i.e., 1,500. Urokodaki had piled on another 500 clearly to test him.
But two thousand was still too few. With a body ten times the norm, as long as his stance and angle stayed correct, Roy believed he could complete a true "ten-thousand swings"—a daily 10,000.
Hwoo— The edge cut wind and snow, stringing together a long howl.
From morning to noon, then toward dusk—aside from some water and two of Urokodaki's dumplings—Roy never stopped. The count was pushing nine thousand…
"Nine thousand one… two… three… four…"
Each stroke fell heavier; composure gave way to fatigue. Arms burning, chest wheezing like a torn bellows—huff… huff…
"Monster," the spirits muttered, suddenly quiet. From bickering to lounging to standing agape—just one day.
"Right… he's not human—he's a demon!" Shinsuke insisted, refusing his eyes. "Rōichirō must be a demon who cozied up to Master so he can bite his head off when he lets his guard down."
"Shut your damn mouth!" Fukuda cracked him on the skull. "You think the sun is for show?
"What demon walks around in daylight?!"
Mt. Sagiri may be fog-bound, but sunlight still filters through.
Forget demons—even the Demon King would ash.
All the same—ten thousand swings on day one was staggering. Rōichirō kept smashing their expectations.
Sabito stared, dazed, until a tug on his sleeve drew him down. Makomo's eyes were shining. "We can be released."
Released—the dream they'd ached for day and night!
"…Yes."
She was right. They could be released.
Sabito drew a breath, nodding hard. He looked back—
In the white birch grove, the boy planted his foot and, with the last of his strength, ripped a final cut—
Shhk! The blade bit the stump like scissors through paper—clean and easy, with one stroke.
"Ten thousand!"
[Notice: Swordsmanship +10]
"Fuu—"
One long breath steamed into a dragon of mist.
The severed stump rolled to his feet…
Roy leaned on the blade, frost crusting his bangs with sweat.
He smiled. "Master, is dinner ready?"
From the misted treeline a figure stepped—tengu mask, silent. He stared a moment at the not-so-tall back of the boy, then said only, "Add another two thousand tomorrow," and turned away.
Roy's laugh rumbled low, then shook his shoulders—chin up, face to the sky, howling into the storm—
"Glorious!"
The laugh punched through the fog—birds exploded from the branches.
"Skree—!"
A fat snow owl, panicked, botched its getaway and slammed into a limb—dropping stone-cold unconscious on the spot.
~~~
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