Shinsuke was flapping and shouting so hard he nearly sprayed spit on Roy's face.
Luckily, Fukuda moved first—hooked an arm around his neck, gave a crisp "crack," and gifted Roy a quiet morning.
The short blade hung serenely on the south wall. Giyū, Sabito, and Makomo stood around it. Roy glanced toward Sakonji Urokodaki—his teacher was, as always, busy in the kitchen. Roy smiled. "It followed me into a dream."
He opened his right hand, pictured the little blade clearly in his mind, and called softly, "Come."
A low hum—steel trembled—and under Giyū's, Sabito's, and Makomo's stunned eyes, the knife dissolved into motes of light, re-formed, and dropped neatly into Roy's palm. He closed his fingers around it.
"Is that… some technique I don't know?"
Big eyes stared at little eyes. No one spoke. In the kitchen, Urokodaki's chopping paused; he rubbed the knife's spine, thinking.
Makomo recovered first. She snuck a look at Sabito and said silently, He guessed right—Roy did it.
The fox-faced boy kept his gaze on the short blade and said nothing.
"Go," Roy murmured.
The knife seemed to have grown a brain. It turned back into dots, flowed to the south wall, and hung itself quietly where it had been.
The teacher always said: man and blade as one—"when the blade lives, the man lives; when the blade breaks, the man dies." Isn't this already that realm? Sabito glanced at Giyū. The Water Hashira looked as cool as ever, but now and then a glint flashed under those clear lake-blue eyes.
No one asked how Roy did it. The only big mouth lay on the floor with a freshly twisted neck.
Roy swung his legs off the bed. He had no intention of hoarding it. He crooked a finger; the blade snapped back into his grip—this time with magnetic pull.
Two methods, two very different sights. Roy's eyes crinkled. "You're heading back, aren't you, Giyu-nii?"
The Corps was drowning in work. If not for him, Giyū wouldn't even have had the chance to come home.
"The Master granted me a week," Giyū said. "With travel, I can stay two days at most."
Roy nodded. "Then—draw your sword."
For what? Giyū hesitated. Sabito, Makomo, Fukuda all looked over. Shinsuke—newly "dead"—flopped over and scrambled up.
Roy only smiled, drew his own knife—and in an instant that ordinary practice blade wore a skin of scarlet. With a thought, "practice steel" became a demon-slaying treasure—the Bright Red Sword.
"You said you wanted to see how to turn the blade red," Roy said, stroking the glowing edge with two fingers. "Since you're leaving, let me give you the 'Red Sword' method as a farewell gift."
Of the three great buffs—Bright Red Sword, Marks, and Transparent World—Transparent World was too airy; you needed an epiphany to grasp it. Marks was a high-tier evolution of Breathing; Roy hadn't fully mapped it yet and had no right to teach it. Only Red Sword could be drilled and taught—cleanly, directly.
Giyū froze. Sabito and Makomo traded a look, then looked back at Roy—faces mixed with admiration and conflict. Part of them wanted to tell him not to be a fool—there was no need to hand someone your edge—but then again… Giyū wasn't "someone."
Giyū gripped his hilt and stalled, tangled between wanting and not wanting to take advantage. He didn't know what to say until—
Urokodaki's voice floated from the kitchen, worn and steady. "Roy, you don't have to."
Do not cast pearls lightly; do not sell the Way cheap. Urokodaki knew exactly what Red Sword meant—hundreds of years of swordsmiths had hunted it; the Ubuyashiki family treated it as priceless. The rarer a thing, the more it must be guarded. It wasn't pettiness—just an old Hashira's caution.
But even if Roy kept it to himself, the plot would run: in a few years, other Hashira would grasp it anyway. If so—better to trade it now for something he needed.
Roy shrugged. "I'm not giving it away. When you report back, I want what I asked before—the full list of demons and intel the Corps has."
Leave no evil uncut; waste not a single drop of life energy. Roy's plan hadn't changed.
"It's not equal." Giyū held his gaze. "Red Sword is worth more than intel. Even if you don't say so, I'll fight for it."
"That's different. I don't take for free."
"Still not enough."
Giyū thought, then pulled a small booklet from inside his haori and handed it over. "My notes. Breathing insights. Take them."
Roy flipped it open—and his eyes lit on Total Concentration: Constant. He reined in the surge, nodded. "Good." He smiled. "That makes us square."
Giyū shut his mouth and nodded. Up on the trees, Sabito and Makomo both smiled as if a weight had lifted. Everyone got something; only demons bled. A fine world.
"Teacher?" Roy asked.
The old man came out with fresh fish porridge and grinned. "Porridge's up. Eat."
Roy and Giyū smiled back.
After breakfast, the two stood by the falls—swords in hand.
"Hold the blade with 'die-if-you-fail' resolve," Roy said. "High-speed vibration. Heat to the threshold—and it'll turn red."
"Something I stumbled into—splitting firewood."
That simple? Shinsuke and Fukuda spiraled around them in disbelief. Sabito and Makomo watched in silence. Giyū cut a glance at Roy, then—at his cue—drew and squeezed.
The first time: failure.
"Resolve," Roy murmured. In the canon, Tanjiro facing Hantengu; Giyū and Iguro in Infinity Castle—each found Red Sword at the brink. You either remembered your father's grip-and-friction—or you lit steel at death's edge.
Giyū nodded, tightened his fingers, and split his heart open. He forced himself to relive—his sister Tsutako, Sabito—each falling to protect him. His brows gathered; he clenched—
A flush of red, first flecks, then flame chased the length of the blade. The second try—success.
"Tch, of course he did," Shinsuke crowed. Fukuda smacked him. "And Roy isn't? Stumbling on Red Sword while splitting kindling—give you ten thousand years, you'd still miss it."
"Like you'd get it?"
"Want to try me?"
Their bickering slid into headlocks and chops. Makomo and Sabito let it wash by. They watched Giyū, Red Sword steel in hand, stunned and yearning.
"If we'd met him earlier," Makomo whispered, "maybe we wouldn't have had to die."
Sabito drew and sheathed his plain blade. "No 'maybe.'" He looked down to where Roy, under Giyū's guidance, had started the blowing-stone drill—stab a hole, blow it to dust—to train lungs for Constant. "Before Roy came, I only wanted revenge. Now…"
He smiled, soft and bitter. "I want to stay with Master—and all of you—just a little longer."
Makomo's eyes brimmed. "Me too."
"Me too!"
"Me as well!"
"I'm never leaving the Master!"
"What about the senior sisters?"
"Of course—them too…"
Sabito glared at Shinsuke and Fukuda, and some tangled knot in his chest loosened. Fine. No more grim truths. While Roy's still here—cherish the time.
Below, Roy drove a hole in a boulder and blew.
Cracks spidered. Two seconds later—boom. Shrapnel rattled the trees. Giyū deflected a few chunks with his saya and stared. First attempt—success. That capacity. That body.
[Sun Breathing +100]
Current: 583/1000 (Mastered)
So that was the missing piece. Roy caught the ping, let a smile ghost his mouth, and fired again.
And again.
Third, fourth, fifth—
+100 … +100 … +100
Current: 999/1000 (Mastered)
The bar stopped ticking. He understood. He'd hit the ceiling. The next step wasn't more stone. It was Constant.
He straightened, breath steady. "You were right, big brother. I still need practice."
Giyū stood amid rubble and rain, eyes dazed. "Good," he said at last.
"Tonight I'll sit for you."
He would keep the vigil and slam Roy awake if "Constant" slipped.
"Then I'm in your hands," Roy said—and meant to sleep till dawn.
He did.
[Sun Breathing +10]
Sun Breathing: 9/10000 (Grandmaster)
Note: Maintaining Total Concentration: Constant daily increases [Physique] by +1.
…
Hunter World.
Zaban City.
5:30 a.m.
Little Gold pecked like a madman until Roy blinked awake, catching the panel ping. He'd slept clean through. No Giyū punches. No backsliding.
Luck—or the kind you make.
He set the bird on his head, rolled out, and—like always—went for a run.
He followed a riverside path. Somewhere he stopped.
An old man with a topknot stood by the rail, sleeves billowing, watching the light—or waiting for someone. Roy glanced over.
"Ho ho," the old man chuckled.
And smiled.
~~~
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