"One minute forty-two seconds, young master—eighteen more and you'd have passed."
When Roy finished breakfast and pushed open the training-hall door, Illumi had already gone first for electroshock.
Hearing Roy enter, the boy with the afro forced himself not to collapse—as if just to look at him. He managed a glance… then his eyes rolled up and he dropped flat.
From 1:35 to 1:42—credit where due, Illumi had improved.
But compared to Young Master Roy… Luke had seen enough these last few days to know: the pass mark the head of house set was an insult to this young master's pace. He moved like he could fly, smashing Luke's expectations again and again.
Roy said nothing, stepped over Illumi's "corpse," and cleanly stripped off his tank, the fine lines of muscle catching the light.
"Forgive me, young master." Luke bowed, but his hands didn't hesitate—he planted the baton.
Lightning spilled like quicksilver, flooding through Roy's body. The stab and the numbness ripped from the soles to the crown, like it might shock his soul loose.
But… so that's all it is. Roy held his breath, clenched his jaw, refused to let his awareness slip.
Two minutes… three… three and a half… headed for four. Luke hurried to shut the baton off.
"Four minutes, young master—no more." He was rattled. Even in Silva's orders, this scenario hadn't come up. If Roy held too long, Luke had no playbook. He froze.
"Continue." If Luke had no answer, Roy would provide one. Seeing the butler still hesitate, he simply snatched the baton, flipped it on, and shocked himself…
Almost there—he could feel it. Soon his body would adapt to the load; after that he'd be effectively immune and wouldn't black out.
And that's how it went.
The stabbing eased; the full-body tingle thinned… four minutes… five… six…
At ten minutes, certain he'd adapted, Roy tossed the baton back to Luke and sat down—squarely on Illumi.
"Uhn—"
Illumi grunted; his body twitched.
Roy acted like he didn't notice. He waved for a bottle. He drank half and poured the rest down onto the "seat" beneath him.
"Dig a new pit and bury him."
If the younger brother lacks virtue, the elder can't lack duty.
That little punk Milluki had been pooping by the pit again—good thing Roy could still move.
Regaining control, Roy stood and gave Luke space.
"Yes, sir," Luke said, lifting Illumi and shuffling off.
When Illumi finally came to and didn't see "tree-hugging" Roy in the garden—only Luke fanning him—he croaked, "How many seconds this time?"
"One minute forty-three."
(And that extra second was you staring after the young master, Luke added silently.)
"And him?"
"Young Master Roy didn't faint." Luke risked a glance.
Illumi stiffened, then shut his eyes and smeared dirt over half his face, leaving only two nostrils to breathe.
If Roy was born, why was I? He used to be ordinary… Illumi felt betrayed by fate.
He forced himself calm and recalled Father's words: even the strongest have weak points; if you're killed, you die. Even if you revive by tricks—you can just be killed again.
So—be patient. Be cool. He's younger; he's got more room and time to grow.
The earth echoed him—comforting, as if Kikyo weren't the mother and it was—fanning warm wind through the window toward the boy in the training hall working Sun Breathing.
Roy cut a heat gust in two with a "Setting Sun Transformation."
[Notice: Physique +0.2]
By sunset the gains from two rounds of "ten-thousand swings" were plain to the eye. With Swordsmanship up, Roy exhaled, ran two fingers like a blade along Yubashiri's guard, spine, and tip, thoughtful…
A swordsman's blade isn't dead metal. It's hands and feet, a lover—everything.
Just as Urokodaki warned before practice: temper your blade; build a bond with it; unless you fall in battle, never abandon it to the wild.
Roy decided that from today, he'd oil Yubashiri himself. You don't send your wife to someone else for upkeep.
At seven, the sun set; evening took the stage.
He told Gotoh to ready dinner. With a plan in mind, he took Yubashiri and strolled the gallery toward the storeroom.
"Caa-ooh—" A few crows crossed, dropping black feathers. Passing the main gate, Roy stopped, eyes narrowing at the man approaching. "Father," he said.
Silva, in a close-cut black combat suit, silver hair flowing behind—like a moonlit-maned lion—radiated wordless menace.
He came close, looked down at Roy. "What day is it?"
"Saturday."
"When's the test?"
"Sunday."
"You remember well."
"I don't dare forget."
"You're aiming for the top—what's left that you don't dare?"
"Until I beat Father, I'll act humble."
"Heh-heh… hahahaha…" Silva's low chuckle swelled into a full-throated laugh; the white mane shook with it.
Hands in pockets, he said no more—brushed past, scooped a woman out of the air as she lunged at him, and vanished with her in his arms.
The gallery fell quiet—save a few twitching strands of restless aura that reminded Roy—
Bring earplugs to bed tonight if you want to sleep.
…
Night.
He pushed open the cognition door with the skull charm.
Back in the Demon Slayer world, practice blade at his side, he headed, as always, deep into Mt. Sagiri to train.
Wind hard; snow driving…
Urokodaki never spared hardship—daily he corrected Roy's frame, steps, angles. Today, though, he saw far more mistakes than usual from the disciple who'd rekindled his will to teach.
He simply pressed Roy's hands down, flipped his wrists, and took the practice blade.
The old Water Hashira fixed him with a look. "Something on your mind? If your spirit's unsettled—don't practice."
"No hiding from Master's sharp eyes. I was just going to ask for a day off—to rest and reset." Roy smiled.
"Reason."
"I need to save some strength to fight."
"With whom?"
Roy drew a breath, more serious than ever. "With my overbearing father."