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Chapter 14 - Survival

The climb seemed endless. The old man carried Yukishiro up the winding stone steps as though the youth weighed no more than a sack of rice. Yukishiro knew his own body wasn't light—he was easily over a hundred pounds, battered and half-conscious. Yet the man's pace never faltered.

Step after step, hundreds of them, and the old man's breathing remained steady, his face composed. His gait did not waver, nor did he so much as grunt from the exertion. Yukishiro, half draped across his back, couldn't help staring in disbelief.

"How can someone over fifty move like this? He's not even panting…"

That realization filled him with awe but also with a flicker of relief. This wasn't just any cultivator—he had found someone formidable.

Someone worth trusting with his survival.

By the time they reached the top, darkness had already settled over the mountain. A wooden house stood quietly against the backdrop of pine trees, its roof blanketed by a fine layer of snow. The old man pushed the door open with his shoulder and stepped inside.

He laid Yukishiro gently onto the wooden floor, then crossed the dim room to strike a flint. The spark caught, and an oil lamp hanging on the wall came alive, filling the house with a warm amber glow.

The room itself was plain: a table, two stools, a small bed, a cupboard pushed against the wall. Nothing more.

The simplicity spoke of long years of solitude.

The old man rummaged in the cupboard and brought out several thin pancakes and roasted rabbit meat—crispy outside, tender inside. He set the food on the table, poured a glass of water, then glanced back.

"Alright. It's late. Eat first. After that I'll give you medicine. You'll sleep here tonight."

With the light falling across him, Yukishiro finally saw the man clearly. His gray linen shirt had been washed to near white, his head was covered in coarse silver hair, and deep wrinkles marked his forehead. A long scar carved down his right cheek, cruel and ugly. If not for that scar, he could have passed for any ordinary farmer.

But his eyes were what stood out. Bright, piercing, unwavering.

Yukishiro pushed himself upright and asked, voice hoarse:

"You're my trainer…? The guard called Rogo?"

The man snorted. "Rogo? What kind of title is that? Just as the Little Butterfly said—you're arrogant and lacking manners. Hmph. If she hadn't come up here to beg me in person, I wouldn't have taken a cocky brat like you even if I were beaten half to death."

"That woman really went that far for me?" Yukishiro thought, startled. Shinobu Kocho—her stingy face flashed across his mind.

Realizing he'd found the trainer he sought, Yukishiro stopped asking questions and tore into the rabbit meat.

Hunger gnawed at him after the day's climb and the brutal fight with the demon.

The old man sat opposite him, picking at his own food while muttering.

"You—a Water Breathing offshoot—insist on coming here to learn Rock Breathing? The two couldn't be more different. No one's come here for years, except that muscle-bound fool Himejima Gyomei decades ago. He's a hashira now. Hmph. Promising, I suppose."

There was a faint pride in his otherwise melancholy tone. But as Yukishiro kept his head down, chewing and saying nothing, Rogo's brow twitched. He lifted his chopsticks and cracked them against the boy's head.

"Ow—!" Yukishiro groaned, glaring at him.

"You starving Demon! When an elder talks, at least answer. No wonder Little Butterfly called you rude. You'll never win her favor with that attitude."

"Just talk, why hit me? And besides—why should I please that woman?" Yukishiro shot back, though his voice softened as he added, "Can't Water Breathing learn Rock Breathing?"

The old man's irritation ebbed. His lips curled in something close to satisfaction.

"That's not it. The Demon Slayer Corps muddles things. All five breathing styles trace back to one root—Sun Breathing. They all lead to the same peak."

Yukishiro nodded. He'd read it in books: Yoriichi Tsugikuni, the genius who created Sun Breathing. His techniques gave demon slayers the means to fight Muzan's spawn. But Yoriichi's death had taken Sun Breathing with it, leaving only the derivative styles behind.

"Then it doesn't matter who I learn from," Yukishiro pressed. "Books say breathing is only a method to push the body's potential. What really matters is strength, skill, and experience. Trainers teach recruits mainly to make things easier—and to pass down some martial foundations. Isn't that right?"

Rogo eyed him, chewing slowly, then gave a reluctant nod. "That's about right."

Yukishiro leaned forward. "That's why I came here. You forged the strongest people in the Corps. It's not only breathing—you must have unique methods of training. That's what I want."

The old man froze.

"This brat… he sees straight to the core. Not a clueless greenhorn, but a born fighter."

He hid his surprise with a scoff. "Cocky boy. No wonder girls don't like you."

They finished dinner in silence, though the air between them hummed with something unspoken—curiosity, grudging respect.

Later, Rogo brought a basin of hot water, gesturing to a stool. "Sit. Time to deal with those wounds."

Yukishiro lowered himself slowly. When the bandages were unwrapped, the old man inhaled sharply. His young body was a map of black scars and livid lines, stitched together like a rag doll.

His hands trembled. It had been years since he'd seen injuries like this. And yet the boy had survived.

"She wasn't exaggerating. Little Butterfly told me he was gravely hurt, and I scoffed… but she was right. This boy's still alive despite all this."

Yukishiro smirked weakly through the pain. "What, old man, are you scared stiff?" His skin had gone pale, his body shaking even while seated.

"Humph. Almost dead, yet still spouting nonsense," Rogo muttered. He carefully wiped away the blood, applied pungent herbs, and rebound the wounds.

When finished, he carried the basin outside to dump the bloody water. Returning, he snuffed out the oil lamp, plunging the house into shadow.

Moonlight filtered through the small window, a silver streak across the wooden floor.

"Rest. We'll talk tomorrow."

The house grew still. Only the faint sound of the wind brushed against the walls.

Yukishiro lay back on the bedding, the smell of herbs strong around him. He couldn't believe it—he was still alive. He slipped a hand into his bandages and pulled out the pendant. Under the moonlight, the jewel gleamed a soft blue.

A rush of emotion broke through him. Tears slid unbidden down his cheeks.

"Sister," he whispered, clutching it tight. "Wait for me. I'll come for you. No matter what—it's not over yet."

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