"A sword is merely an extension of the arm..."
"As the saying goes, 'the longer the reach, the stronger the strike'—what your limbs can't touch, the sword must make up for."
"If your posture is off, correct it. Your waist should be straight with a slight forward lean. Plant your stance firmly. Eyes should stay level with the sword tip—aligned along one continuous line..."
"When swinging downward, all your strength must focus on the blade edge—to maximize cutting force..."
"No, raise your hand higher. Where's your elbow support...?"
"I told you to look forward, not to stick your chin out like you're offering it up for a stab..."
"Your vertical swing must be straight—straight. Otherwise, you'll snap the blade in no time..."
"One. Downward swing... Put more strength into it..."
"Two. Again..."
"Three... Four... No dinner until you finish all 2,000 swings before sunset!"
In a clearing deep in Mount Sagiri, fragments of broken wooden posts lay scattered across the snow-covered ground.
Urokodaki Sakonji stood there, tirelessly correcting Roy's stance, footwork, and swing angles.
Then, after watching him closely for a while, he issued a final command—"2,000 swings by nightfall"—and vanished.
According to Shinsuke, Fukuda, and the others, for a beginner to swing a sword 1,000 times without passing out was already considered a success.
But 2,000?
All they could say was—"Yoneichiro's gonna suffer for this."
"Master is sulking," said Makomo, perched atop a tall birch tree. She looked down at Roy, who was performing Iai slashes—one strike after another, calm and focused.
The boy wasn't rushing or complaining, even though Urokodaki had doubled the task without warning.
Almost... too calm.
"That's not sulking," Sabito corrected her. "It's because Master's never had a student as gifted as Yoneichiro."
Ten days. That's all it took for Roy to comprehend the secret of Breathing. A level of talent virtually unheard of.
Behind his fox mask, Sabito's eyes locked onto Roy's every movement. In one flickering moment, it was as if he saw a younger Giyu—with the same thick black hair, the same extraordinary gift.
A kind of genius you couldn't replicate.
"How many swings did Giyu manage on his first day?" Makomo asked curiously.
"Him?" Sabito chuckled.
"He could barely push out 800. Master had to physically move his arms for the last 200 swings."
Sabito smiled as memories surfaced.
"But he grew stronger. At his peak, he completed the 'Ten Thousand Sword Swings' three times. That was when Master finally brought him to the waterfall—to begin training his Breathing Style."
"Three times? I've only done two..."
Makomo pouted in protest.
"That's already amazing. That idiot Fukuda only ever managed around 1,800," Shinsuke interjected, mercilessly exposing his friend's shortcomings.
"You think you're any better?"
Fukuda lunged at Shinsuke, locking in a chokehold.
"You useless trash. Only beat me by ten swings and won't shut up about it!"
"Ten is still ten!"
Shinsuke retaliated, aiming a surprise hit at Fukuda's crotch.
The two immediately devolved into chaos, exchanging insults and wrestling as usual, stirring up gusts of chilly wind...
Sabito, long accustomed to their antics, paid them no mind. His elegant eyes remained locked on Roy—curious to see how far this first-timer could go.
"At the very least, I can't fall short of Tanjiro Kamado."
Roy continued slashing downward. He knew that in the original story, Tanjiro's first-day record was 1.5 times the "Ten Thousand Sword Swings"—meaning 1,500 swings.
Urokodaki had tacked on another 500 to that as a test. That was no coincidence.
But 2,000 was still too little.
Roy's Physique stat was ten times that of a normal person. As long as his stance and angles were correct, he believed he could complete a true Ten Thousand Sword Swings—10,000 cuts in one day.
Whoosh~
The blade sliced through snow and wind, leaving behind a long, whistling arc.
From morning to noon, then from noon to dusk—
Aside from a few gulps of water and two rice dumplings Urokodaki had packed, Roy didn't stop once.
He pressed forward, drawing ever closer to the mark...
"Nine thousand one... Nine thousand two... Nine thousand three... Nine thousand four..."
With each swing, his fatigue increased.
His arms ached, his chest wheezed like a broken bellows—"huff, huff"—each breath ragged and strained...
"Monster..."
Shinsuke, Fukuda, and the rest of the ghostly spirits fell completely silent.
From play-fighting to lounging lazily, now they stood tall, stunned, staring at Roy.
And this was only one day.
"Wait a sec... He's not human—he's a demon!"
Shinsuke shouted, convinced.
"Yoneichiro's totally a demon, faking it to get close to Master and bite his head off when he lets his guard down!"
"Shut the hell up!"
Fukuda smacked him with a skull-rattling bonk to the forehead.
"You think the sun's just a decoration?"
"What kind of demon can walk around in daylight?!"
Though Mount Sagiri was shrouded in fog year-round, rays of sunlight occasionally pierced through.
Even the Demon King would be turned to ash under sunlight.
Still...
To achieve 10,000 slashes on your first day as a beginner—it was just too incredible.
This guy... Yoneichiro...
was constantly challenging everything they believed possible.
Sabito stared in a daze, until he felt someone tug his sleeve.
He turned to see Makomo looking up at him, eyes bright.
"We can be freed."
Freed...
It was the dream they all yearned for.
"Yeah," Sabito exhaled deeply, nodding hard.
Then looked down again—
In the birch forest, amid the snow, the boy planted his foot firmly and unleashed one final slash with every ounce of his remaining strength—
Squelch—
The blade sank into the wooden stake, slicing clean through like a scissor through paper.
"Ten thousand!"
[Notification: Swordsmanship +10...]
Fooooooh—
He exhaled long, a breath like a dragon's vapor.
The broken stump rolled to his feet...
Roy stood with his sword as support.
Sweat-drenched bangs had long since frozen into frosted strands...
He smiled.
"Master, is dinner ready?"
From the fog-shrouded forest behind him, a shadow slowly emerged—
Wearing a tengu mask, saying nothing, the man stared silently at Roy's modest figure for a moment, then left him with a single sentence:
"Tomorrow, add two thousand more."
And walked away.
"Heh heh heh..."
The boy chuckled low in his throat, shoulders shaking.
Then he tilted his head back, raised his chin to the sky—and roared into the wind and snow with unrestrained laughter.
"Fantastic!"
His voice pierced the fog...
Startling a flock of birds into flight—
Screeeee—
One foolish snowy owl, startled too late, slammed headfirst into a tree branch... and promptly passed out.