The training didn't stop after that first night.
It became a rhythm.
A grind.
Every morning, Roy woke up on a futon in some abandoned shrine or temple, curses lurking outside like vultures waiting for his cue.
And every morning, Geto would stand over him, arms folded, serene as always.
"Up. The curses won't wait for you to be ready."
Roy groaned, rubbing his bruises, but dragged himself to his feet anyway.
He learned quickly that complaining never bought him mercy, only more enemies to fight.
The battles blurred together.
Claws.
Teeth.
Shadows in the mist.
Roy's fists cracked against them, his illusions scrambled their senses, and his threads launched him just far enough to escape death.
By the second day, his body ached in places he didn't know could ache.
By the third, he was coughing blood after pushing Threadstep too hard.
By the fourth, he was moving almost on instinct alone, duck, roll, counter, misdirect.
Geto never lifted a finger to save him.
But he also never let him truly die.
If a curse came too close, a flick of Geto's hand would leash it back.
Then he'd watch Roy scramble back to his feet, gasping and grinning through split lips.
At night, when the curses were dismissed, Geto finally spoke.
His words were measured, almost like scripture, delivered as Roy sat with a damp towel pressed against his bruised ribs.
"Do you see them, Roy? How curses swarm the weak like flies to rotting fruit? They are drawn to human frailty, to lies, selfishness, fear. The strong suffer for the weak's decay."
Roy usually laughed it off.
"You make it sound like I'm being mugged by people's bad vibes."
But Geto didn't laugh.
He leaned closer, voice low and steady.
"And tell me… why should you suffer for their weakness? Why should I?"
Roy fell silent then, if only because he didn't have the breath to argue.
He didn't agree, but the words dug somewhere deep, left to fester.
Day after day, the grind continued.
Roy grew sharper.
Faster.
His illusions stretched farther, became subtler, enough to fool even his own eyes if he wasn't careful.
His threads stacked quicker, flinging him in blurs across the battlefield, though each use left his cursed energy reserves thinner, his muscles screaming louder.
And all the while, Geto's voice wove itself between the cracks of Roy's exhaustion.
"Power exists for those willing to take it."
"The world will only ever see you as a tool, unless you claim your own meaning."
"Do you think Gojo trains you for your sake, or for theirs?"
The words didn't fully sink in, not yet.
But they lingered, like a thorn under skin.
By the end of the first week, Roy lay flat on the dirt after another battle, his chest heaving, curses crumbling around him.
He laughed weakly at his own survival, staring up at the canopy of broken trees above.
Geto stepped into view, his silhouette cutting the moonlight.
For the first time, his tone held something almost like pride.
"You're adapting. Quicker than most."
Roy smirked, coughing out blood.
"Guess I'm just stubborn."
Geto crouched down beside him, eyes gleaming faintly.
"No. You're alive because you refuse to be weak. That makes you worth the effort."