Chapter 45: Akira's Special Training
Early the next morning, Kanzaki Akira and Makomo stood facing each other in a quiet courtyard of the Butterfly Mansion. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of dew-kissed flowers. Both held a simple wooden sword, its weight familiar in their hands.
"Alright," Akira said, his voice a calm invitation. "Show me how much you've improved over the past six months."
Though they had kept in touch through letters, their meetings had been few and far between—three brief encounters in half a year. Akira had no real measure of Makomo's current strength, only learning from their recent conversations that she had just been promoted to the rank of Kinoe.
"Then, here I come!" Makomo's voice was tight with focus.
"Water Breathing, Third Form: Flowing Dance."
She opened with the form she knew best. As a girl, her raw physical strength was naturally less than that of most male swordsmen, so her combat style leaned heavily on flexibility and technical precision. Her blade wove through the air, tracing the fluid, unpredictable path of a river current.
However, Akira knew this style had a critical vulnerability against durable, 'tank-like' opponents. A demon only needed to protect its neck, but a human slayer had countless weak points. A single misstep could lead to a crippling injury, and her stamina would inevitably drain faster.
His thoughts drifted to the incident that had brought her here. Her serious injury had been the result of a desperate gamble. After a prolonged battle where she failed to break through a demon's defenses and her teammate was gravely wounded, she had feigned an opening, baiting the demon in to create a chance for a decapitating strike.
The result was a successful kill—otherwise, she wouldn't be standing before him now. Her teammate, however, had not been so fortunate. He had succumbed to his wounds while being transported to the Butterfly Mansion by the Kakushi.
The shock of losing a comrade, the sudden doubt in her own strength, and the news of Akira's ascension to Hashira—those three blows had struck her all at once, cultivating the deep-seated unease that had led to her mischievous prank.
For a Demon Slayer to risk their life for a single beheading opportunity was not uncommon. In fact, most who attempted such a gambit either failed or sacrificed themselves to create an opening for their partners.
In stark contrast, slayers like Akira, who could decisively end their opponents in every mission, were exceedingly rare. Even then, such swordsmen usually only dominated in the early stages of their careers. As their rank increased and the demons they faced grew stronger, clean, instantaneous victories became nearly impossible.
In the last few decades, only two individuals in the entire Demon Slayer Corps had ascended to the rank of Hashira by what seemed like a near-unbroken chain of instant kills. The first was Himejima Gyomei. The second was Akira himself.
Even legendary figures like the former Water Hashira, Urokodaki Sakonji; the former Sound Hashira, Kuwajima Jigorō; and the current Flame Hashira, Rengoku Shinjuro, had all clawed their way to the top through countless life-or-death struggles in their later years.
It was for this reason that while Akira himself didn't feel a deep change with his new title, other swordsmen—especially those of higher rank—understood the true, terrifying weight of the Hashira level. These two men, who had reached the pinnacle in less than a year, were spoken of in hushed, reverent tones, viewed with an awe typically reserved for living gods.
This was the source of Makomo's fear. It was why she had worried that Akira would become aloof and distant. In her perception, the Hashira were lofty, untouchable beings.
"Water Breathing, Ninth Form: Splashing Water Flow, Turbulent!"
"Tenth Form: Constant Flux!"
Because her opponent was Akira, a Hashira, Makomo held nothing back. She unleashed everything she had, resulting in the most powerful offensive technique in the Water Breathing style. Her movements became a raging vortex, her wooden sword a blur of motion as she desperately sought an opening.
"No more… I can't…" After more than half an hour, Makomo finally stumbled to a halt, leaning on her sword and panting for breath. She waved a weary hand at Akira. "I give up."
Facing him directly for the first time in a real spar, Makomo was finally confronted with the immense chasm between them. For thirty minutes, she had thrown every technique, every feint, every strategy she knew at him. She hadn't managed to so much as graze the fabric of his clothes, and in the process, had utterly exhausted herself.
She was, after all, still recovering from a major injury, and her stamina was far from its peak.
"Your combat style is built on flexibility, on using agile footwork to wear down your enemy and create an opening," Akira said, his tone patient but refusing to indulge her. "You can't afford to give up after such a short time."
At her current level, he knew she would stand little chance against any of the Lower Moons. Even a common demon with a troublesome Blood Demon Art could easily take her life.
Therefore, Akira had already made his decision. Until Makomo met his standards, he would effectively 'detain' her at the Butterfly Mansion. As for the missions that would have been assigned to her, he would simply work a little harder and handle them himself during his nightly patrols.
"You're already very proficient with Water Breathing," he continued, stepping closer. "But your biggest problem is that you're unconsciously trying to perfectly imitate Master Urokodaki's movements."
He tapped his own chest. "Every swordsman is different. Our strength, speed, flexibility—even our height and weight—are unique. You can only unleash the true power of a Breathing Style when you fine-tune its forms to fit your own body."
"When necessary, you can even create your own forms. Or, go a step further and create your own Breathing Style. Remember this, Makomo: what suits you is what is best."
This was a philosophy Akira had always lived by. It was why, from the moment he began learning Thunder Breathing, he had been intentionally modifying the movements. Aided by his unique eyes, the process was drastically shortened. Before extensive training could lock in muscle memory, he had already self-adapted each technique, further refining them through the crucible of countless battles.
This process of adaptation was a necessary part of any swordsman's growth, but Akira's eyes allowed him to bypass years of trial and error.
Now, he intended to lend her his sight. His next task was to use his perception to point out the flaws, the subtle inefficiencies and dissonances in her movements, giving her a clear target for improvement. The specific adjustments, however, were something only she could figure out for herself.
"It's like choosing clothes," he explained. "You have to try them on to know if they fit. It's the same with a sword form. You have to practice it, feel it out, and see if there are any awkward points in the way you exert your strength. In battle, any movement that isn't perfectly smooth becomes a weakness."
Having set the course for her training, Akira immediately put it into practice.
Though Makomo groaned and complained, she threw herself into the sparring with renewed seriousness. With Akira guiding her, she repeated her forms again and again. He would point out a flaw, and she would gradually adjust her movements, tweaking her posture and the flow of her power until the form felt like her own.
The morning slipped by, unnoticed.
"Akira-kun, Makomo, come eat!"
They only stopped when Kanae's cheerful voice called out to them, announcing lunch.
"That's enough sword training for the morning," Akira declared, lowering his wooden blade. "This afternoon, we'll work on physical fitness and reaction time. Tonight, while you sleep, I'll have someone watch over you. If your Total Concentration Breathing breaks, they'll wake you up."
Makomo could already maintain the breathing technique while conscious, so she no longer needed dedicated daytime practice. The next step was to make it second nature, even in sleep. If her breathing was interrupted during the night, she would be 'rewarded' with being woken up to start again, a surefire way to master Total Concentration: Constant. It was a special kind of torment Kuwajima had put him through, and now it was Makomo's turn.
She was still panting, her bangs plastered to her forehead with sweat, but the tangible progress she'd made that morning lit up her face. Her eyes were brighter than they had been in months.
"Yes, Kanzaki-sensei!" Makomo snapped to attention, her posture ramrod straight. A moment later, a mischievous glint returned to her eyes, and she gave him a playful wink.
"You…" Akira couldn't help but laugh, reaching out to gently poke her forehead.
He was suddenly reminded of his first trip to Mount Sagiri, of playing with her in much the same way.
Unknowingly, more than half a year had already passed…
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