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Chapter 16 - Pre-selection Training

Due to excessive blood loss, Yukishiro drifted in and out of consciousness for an entire day.

Even when his eyes opened in the middle of the night, his mind was wrapped in a heavy fog, and he could not tell if what he saw was reality or the fragments of a dream.

That evening, Lang Bingwei stewed chicken soup and fish soup over the stove, forcing the rich smell of broth through the wooden walls of the hut. He carefully ladled it into bowls and brought them to the boy.

What Yukishiro hadn't expected was that an old man in his fifties could be so meticulous in caring for someone—so much so that he was even more attentive than the three lively attendants of the Butterfly Mansion.

His mouth still felt bitter, and no taste came through when he swallowed, but he forced down two steaming bowls. "If this helps me recover sooner, then I'll drink it all," he told himself, lifting the last spoonful despite his stomach's protests.

After the meal, Lang Bingwei set to work outside. He built a simple stove from stone and clay, set a wide wooden barrel upon it, and filled it with water from the well. Sparks and smoke rose into the air as he lit the firewood. Yukishiro sat slumped on the stone bench near the door, watching the flames glow against the old man's back.

His heart, so heavy these last weeks, softened slightly.

The massacre of his village, his sister's abduction—he had thought despair would be the rest of his life. Yet he had met the women of the Butterfly Mansion, and now this mountain hermit who cooked, scolded, and cared for him as though fate itself had dragged them together.

Lang Bingwei was preparing a medicinal bath.

The boy's injuries had only barely scabbed over, and Demon's claws carried toxins that gnawed into his blood. The old man explained that the herbs would draw out poison, mend the body, and spare him from lingering scars.

Steam soon rolled off the barrel, clouding the air in a white haze. Lang Bingwei tested the water with his hand, then glanced at Yukishiro.

"Should I carry you in? Or will you walk yourself?"

Yukishiro nearly choked. Carry me? He had only ever heard of men carrying women. The thought of being lifted by another man made his scalp prickle.

"No… no need. I'll go in myself."

Clutching the wall, he pushed himself upright, stumbling toward the barrel. After only a few steps, stars pricked across his vision, his stomach turned violently, and his knees gave way. Lang Bingwei caught him under the arms and guided him the rest of the way.

At last, he sank into the hot water. Heat spread through every cut, sting, and bruise, both soothing and agonizing at once. Lang Bingwei sat on a low stool by the stove, tossing in firewood now and then. The firelight played across his lined, weather-beaten face.

"Hey, old man," Yukishiro said, leaning his chin on the barrel's edge, "you talk too much for someone who lives alone in the mountains. Doesn't it get lonely, with no one to bother you?"

Lang Bingwei shot him a glare. "Old man? No wonder Little Butterfly called you rude. And who told you I'm always alone? Do you think I sit here counting pine trees every day?" He smirked, then added, "By the way, I submitted your name today. Two months from now, you'll be taking part in the selection on Mount Fujikasane."

Yukishiro tilted his head back, looking at the star-pricked sky above. "Whatever," he muttered.

Inwardly, though, his chest tightened. The Corps… the only path forward. If I want to find my sister, I can't rely on others forever.

Under Lang Bingwei's persistent care, his body recovered swiftly. In just one week, he could walk without stumbling and move through simple stretches without pain. Harder exertion was still impossible, but compared to the wreck he had been, it was a rebirth.

The old man wasted no time. He drew up a structured rehabilitation and training plan: one part to heal lingering weakness, another to build strength for the path ahead. A week later, Yukishiro's real training began.

There remained only a month and a half before the Fujikasane selection. Within that time, he needed to grasp the essence of the Demon Slayer's greatest weapon: the breathing techniques.

Breathing was more than simple survival. Done properly, it flooded the blood with oxygen, forced the heart to pump faster, and raised body temperature until hidden potential blazed forth. Air forced into the muscle fibers hardened them, like invisible armor woven under the skin. At its peak, it granted both explosive power and inhuman endurance.

But the strain was immense.

A weak body shattered under it. Only a frame honed through brutal training could bear the pressure.

Recognizing this, Lang Bingwei designed a six-week program, divided into three escalating phases.

Each morning and evening, Yukishiro had to run the mountain path—first with his own weight, then carrying five kilograms, then ten. His legs burned after the first trial, but the old man only laughed and added more rocks to his pack.

By daylight, he was cast into a forest rigged with snares and hidden weapons. Dodging swinging logs and sudden projectiles, he learned to trust reflex and sharpen his senses.

Afternoons were devoted to waterfall training. The pounding curtain of water roared down as he raised his practice sword overhead, forcing every swing through the weight of the torrent. First empty-handed, then with iron weights strapped to wrists and ankles—two kilograms each at first, then five. By the final stage, twenty kilograms of burden clung to his limbs, and the weights could never be removed, even outside training.

As if that weren't enough, he had to dive to the lakebed and hold himself there until his lungs screamed, tempering his heart and lungs against suffocation. And at the end of the day, Lang Bingwei would appear again, staff in hand, testing him with sudden strikes and harsh corrections.

Only at night was he allowed "rest"—yet even then, sleep was denied. Instead, he was made to lie in meditation, maintaining the breathing form without pause. This, Lang Bingwei explained, was Total Concentration: Constant, a state so few slayers ever reached that most doubted it was possible.

Yukishiro could only barely imitate it. Some nights he maintained the rhythm until dawn, only to wake the next day and find himself breathing like an ordinary man again. Still, his progress was astonishing.

Lang Bingwei, watching, often shook his head in disbelief. From the very beginning, he had sensed the boy was not ordinary. He was sharp, determined, and unyielding. But to endure such crushing training without complaint—even warriors from the far islands had broken sooner.

No matter the hardship, Yukishiro ground his teeth, steadied his breath, and endured.

And with each day, the conviction behind his eyes deepened.

Demons took everything from me. If my body breaks, then it breaks. If I die, then I die. But until then—I will sharpen myself into the blade that cuts them down.

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