Clang!
The short blade met the Nichirin.
Veins stood out along Roy's forearm—he pressed down hard.
A surging, pounding force poured from his short blade into the Nichirin, then rammed up Giyu's arm.
A flicker rippled through Giyu's cool eyes; his arm bent—he hadn't expected Roy's raw strength to be this great.
Not at all inferior to demons he'd fought—perhaps… beyond.
It made him think of a towering figure—the Stone Hashira, Himejima Gyōmei—the man who could bludgeon a demon to death by brute force alone.
"Water Breathing: Sixth Form: Whirlpool!"
There are two answers to raw power: one, crush it with greater power; two—the path Giyu took—shed it and counter with borrowed force.
He dropped his shoulder, giving half a body-width; let Roy press the Nichirin to the ground; then drew back and, skimming along the short blade, struck sparks and swung a flowing cut at Roy's neck.
"Giyu-nii's rattled," Makomo whispered, big eyes unblinking. "He didn't expect Roy to be this strong."
"That isn't fear. That's experience," Sabito murmured, palm resting on his hilt. He'd seen how Giyu shed weight and stole it back—instantaneous, instinctive. "Before mankind had Breathing, we couldn't grapple a demon head-on. So shedding force and borrowing force became the norm. Giyu's sharp—once he realized he's outgunned, he changed tempo and avoided the edge. That's what a Hashira should do."
A flash, too bright to look at—
Roy tasted danger. He threw his head back—Nichirin kissed air at his nose-tip; the "waterflow" cut hissed past, and into the trees—felling a thick cypress with a single keening stroke.
"Giyu-nii—we're on the same side!" Shinsuke, sprawled along that cypress to watch the fun, saw the cut arrow toward him, shrieked, and leapt to another tree—clamping onto Fukuda.
"Get off, you punk!" Fukuda hooked his nostril and choke-locked him—then looked up—
Clang-clang-clang… Steel rang in a strobing chain. In the space of a few breaths—
Roy's short blade and Giyu's Nichirin crashed together dozens of times.
Sparks fountained. Giyu's heart kicked hard. He hadn't thought the boy could keep the tempo.
This was not a beginner's level.
"Water Breathing: Second Form: Water Wheel!" Giyu saw Roy close again. He flipped his wrist, reversed and cut up—a ring of water bullied Roy back. In that pause he drew a great breath—his bearing changed.
Total Concentration: Constant. Oxygen through lung and flame—heart-lung output spiked; blood surged; his heart gave a double-beat. In one second—
Giyu moved like a wound-up machine, pushed to the redline.
"The Hashira's stopped playing," Sabito said softly.
"It's Roy," Makomo breathed. "He's years younger and he's keeping pace—not fading. Giyu-nii has to take him seriously."
Raw strength, a body like iron, reactions like lightning, battlefield adjustment—and at this age… Giyu had no memory of himself matching this at Roy's years.
Hiss—
Giyu leveled his blade; from his nostrils a hot white dragon of breath uncoiled; he flickered—
The same Seventh Form: Drop Ripple Thrust, but now it was not the same at all.
A needle of cold light sprang toward Roy's face. Giyu ghosted into Roy's blind angle and knifed in fast.
This was the speed—and sense—that Constant Breathing grants.
"Giyu-nii's faster now… looks like I'll need Butterfly Estate soon—to accelerate my Constant," Roy thought.
The point glittered—at arm's-length—
Two little suns flared in Roy's eyes. He looked at Giyu—calm.
Giyu jolted. Before he knew what was wrong, the thrust—and everything around it—had been slowed to a crawl. To the eye: he froze.
"What—?"
"Giyu-nii… stopped?" the ghosts blurted. They dropped their scuffle and scrambled higher, staring down.
Across the falls, Sabito and Makomo stared as well—lost.
Sabito's brow creased. Giyu did not look like he'd chosen to hold. Then—
Roy's Eye That Shatters Illusion had already read Giyu's line. Roy slipped his flank—let the thrust pass—and let Giyu spear empty air and the rock beneath the falls.
Hum… Ripples spread. Giyu snapped back—under the cataract, blade jammed in stone, water dumping over his head. Soaked to the bone, he didn't care. He turned—eyes cool and clear as ever—ripples there nonetheless.
"A sword-art you created?"
A domain, perhaps?
Roy shook his head; he remembered winter tea with his father by a snowy night—and answered truthfully. "My father taught me."
Giyu's look shifted. "Your father is a swordsman?"
To still another's motion, to read their line—this kind of "technique"… does not come from nowhere.
"But I was sure Rōichirō's father is a simple charcoal seller," Makomo said, scratching her head. "Was Tanjiro lying? Maybe he's a retired swordsman, like Master?"
Sabito folded his arms, frowning. His gut told him Tanjiro wasn't the lying sort.
"Maybe there's more to it."
He watched Roy.
The boy touched his hanafuda earrings, lifted his blade, and sent another cut toward Giyu—
Smiling lightly. "No. He's just an ordinary father."
Other than being weak of body, Roy thought, he's the same as mine, yours, his, everyone's…